Visitation Rights
by it takes a village
Summary: All Lisa Reisert wants is to get her life back in order. All Jackson Rippner wants is her.
1. One

**Disclaimer: **I claim ownership to absolutely nothing, not even the idea for this story. Well, okay, maybe the idea.

**Author's Note:** I'm debating whether I want this to be a one-shot or a continuation. Right now, I'm leaning towards continuation, but you all let me know what you think too, mmk? Enjoy!

* * *

Lisa Reisert was surprised at how neatly and succinctly Jackson Rippner and the events on the red-eye had been erased from her life.

Three months had gone by since that fateful flight, and already the media had stopped calling. The news stations had moved on from reporting about the attack on the Lux Atlantic. The "Terror Alert" had gone down. The police no longer knocked on her door. Her father limited his calls to once or twice a day rather than once or twice an hour. She no longer cried herself to sleep every night.

And Jackson Rippner was gone. Literally gone, from every facet of her existence. He had never appeared on the news, had never received any media attention with relation to the destruction of her hotel. No passengers on Flight 1019, not even Sheila with the neck scarf, could give a clear and accurate description of him to serve as witness for a trial that had, ultimately, never occurred. Lisa had endured rounds and rounds of questioning, during which she detailed the occurrences of that day to the best of her abilities, until she finally realised that they had no interest in Jackson Rippner, but in her. Why had she made the call? What was her relationship with the Keefes? How long had she been working at the hotel? What was her affiliation with the Russian terrorists whom they had managed to apprehend? It had taken exhausting, gruelling sessions of maintaining her innocence as well as the Keefes' support of her to finally get them all to back off. In the process, she had almost lost her good name, a multitude of clients to her hotel, and her sanity. What was left of it, anyway.

A brief investigation had been conducted to locate the whereabouts of Jackson, but Lisa knew it was in vain. Knew by the looks that the FBI agents exchanged, the knowledge they shared about "cases like these". Jackson may not have been CIA, but he was certainly someone whom they knew of—maybe not his exact identity, but his type. A government-terrorist player, the kind that worked with both sides and so was valuable to both sides, but trusted by neither. A good guy and a bad guy, so to speak.

At the same time, justice had to be served—Lisa had been terrorised and violently assaulted, the house destroyed. While they gave her false promises of continued investigation, it appeared as though the real retribution came in the form of insurance and government payments of medical bills and the clean-up of the Reisert's house. The clean-up of their lives.

It took her a much shorter time to recover from this attack than it did her previous one. Maybe because she hadn't been as thoroughly violated. Maybe because she had been moreso. She was back to work immediately, falling effortlessly into the same old routine. She still glanced over her shoulder now and then, but that was nothing new. Locked all the doors as soon as she entered the house. But now, she wasn't spending so much time by herself. She made an effort to get to know people better—befriended Cynthia, went on dates, got to know her neighbours for the first time in three years. Partly because she wanted, needed to maintain a sense of normalcy. Partly because she was sick of being alone.

Yet despite these transitions, she was not a fully changed woman. She still came home alone every night, went to bed alone every night. She told herself it was still too soon.

She knew she was lying.

Yes, the red-eye flight had reopened old scars and created new ones, both figuratively and literally speaking. She was already trying to recover from her old assault, and now had a new one to contend with. The unfairness of the situation was what really got to her, the feeling that she had almost, finally, had her life stumbling back into place only to have the pieces scattered once more.

However, the fact that she spent her nights alone had nothing to do with the freshness of the attack, nor did it stem from her assault trauma, both the sexual and physical that she had experienced on separate occasions. No, it had to do with the quicksilver blue eyes and maliciously gentle smirk that swam before her blackened vision every time she closed her eyes. The face that she hadn't seen for months and yet could not stop seeing. The disgust she felt with herself and the ache in her gut and in her heart is what made her fall asleep crying.

Even this was fading, though. The tears still came, sometimes when she least expected them, most times when she didn't want them, but they were fewer and farther in between. She started gaining some weight, finally able to get food to stay in her stomach. The Lux was slowly regaining the clientele it had lost. Her life was, once again, attempting to recreate itself.

So of course it needed to be shattered once more.

Lisa had been getting sick of anniversaries. Her parents' would-be thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, the two-year anniversary of her parking lot attack, the three-month anniversary of her grandmother's death, and the three-month anniversary of Flight 1019 all fell on top of one another as luck would have it. Not on the same day, of course, as that would be a coincidence even beyond Jackson Rippner's proportions. Not even the same month, for the most part. But it just seemed as though it was one anti-celebration after another, all collapsing onto themselves and onto her.

If she had to peg Jackson as anything, it would be a details man. So when the first month since the attack came to a close, she expected to see him. Forget that he might be dead, forget that if he wasn't, his injuries were extensive enough that it would take longer than a month to heal. He was superhuman to her. If he had wanted to see her, he would have appeared. The second month passed in much the same way. On the final day, she double-checked her locks and kept the field hockey stick in her hand as she slept. She had taken it from her father's house that ill-fated day, feeling a perverted sense of protection from it. When she woke up, the doors were still locked, the stick still tightly gripped in her cramping hand.

It was her own fault, then, that she didn't pay enough attention to the anniversary of the third month. It had been a strenuous, gruelling day at work. Patrons were surlier, plumbing more finicky, workers more careless, and mistakes happened. Plenty of mistakes that required plenty of ass-kissing, plenty of free rooms, and plenty complimentary keys to the mini-bars. So when she finally stumbled into her apartment at just past eleven p.m., after having worked an almost sixteen-hour shift, she forgot to lock the door behind her, forgot to double check the windows, forgot to do everything except trip over her shoes as she took them off and fall face first onto her bed.

Not that locked doors or windows had ever stopped Jackson before.

She dreamt she was trapped in a room with no windows or doors, and the walls were closing in on her. She could feel them pressing against her body, suffocating her, pressing her more firmly onto the other side. The pressure on her chest was building and she slowly awoke in her efforts to try and take deeper breaths. She could feel her pelvic bones cutting into the wall, the moving, solid, warm…

Her eyes focussed and she blinked, not believing what she was seeing, horror slowly dilating her pupils.

And she screamed as loud as she could.

Jackson covered her mouth and her nose with his large palm, not un-gently, but effectively cutting off her terrorised scream.

"Shh, Lise, shh… You'll wake the neighbours," he rasped in her ear, a mocking lilt to his voice. His hot breath caused her entire body to rise in gooseflesh.

She willed herself not to cry, even as heated tears raced down her temples and into her hairline. She hated not being strong, and she _had_ been strong, once. It seemed like centuries ago. Then, months ago with him, she had become strong again. He had stripped her down, taken away the final pieces of the broken shell that she was, so that she had no choice but to rebuild. She hated him for making her weak, but she hated him even more for making her strong. Most of all because she had needed him to do that; she had needed him to give her that strength.

And she hated needing him.

He pressed her more firmly into her mattress, shifting his weight so that his body was more evenly distributed across hers. He wasn't much wider than her, but she could feel the muscle mass through his crisp dress shirt, the steeliness of his torso and legs, could feel the sinew shudder through his arms as he slowly repositioned his hand so that it no longer covered her nose and she could breathe again. She took in deep, jerking breaths, eyes still wide and watery, locking onto his. Both sets appeared silvery in the moonlight although his had a more wolf-like sheen, a predatory intensity that her doe-eyes could never achieve.

Suddenly, the weight on her became too encompassing, too horrifyingly familiar. She began thrashing her head from side to side, trying to let out another scream that was easily muffled by his hand. She bucked her hips underneath his and tried to untangle her legs from the sheets. She was still in her work clothes, and her tight, knee-length skirt restricted most of her movement, however.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey-hey." He brought his other hand up to the side of her face, cradling it almost tenderly. "Stop moving around like that." His eyes warmed with a compassion that was belied by his smirk. "You're kind of turning me on."

She glared at him, hatred burning in her eyes, and tried positioning her knee to hit a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy the next time she jerked her body. He would have none of it, however, and quickly used his brute force to get between her legs once more. She let out a low, horrified moan. This could not happen again, she wouldn't survive it this time, she couldn't, she just couldn't…

"Would you relax?" he told her with an exasperated tone. "Jackson Rippner does not force himself on unwilling ladies, alright? I just need you a little pliable is all. I also need to be able to protect the parts of my body that come in handy from time to time." He stared at her again for a beat, contemplating. "If I take my hand off, will you scream?"

She gave no indication of her response, merely let her eyes roll away from his and squeezed them tightly shut, causing more tears to leak out.

"Hmm. I guess I'll just have to trust you, then. A little ridiculous, I know, what with all the shooting and stabbing I endured at your hands, but what can I say? I'm not the kind of guy to hold a grudge." He paused, then chuckled softly. "Wait, of course I am. Which is why I know you'll be a good little girl when I remove my hand, right? Because, as you well know by now, my retribution is quick and it is fierce. Am I right?" She didn't move one way or another. "Yes, I am. Now, be brave, little Lisa."

He slowly took his hand away from her mouth, and she let out a loud, shuddering gasp before sucking in a large amount of air. "Isn't that better?" he murmured, placatingly.

"Get off me," she whispered, still not looking at him. "Get off."

He pretended to think about it, biting his lip. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, Lise—"

"_Get off_," her whisper grew harsher, even as her head still remained to the side. She shut her eyes once more, seemingly trying to block him out. "Get off, get off, get off, get off get off getoffgetoff—"

A shadow crossed over his face as he looked at her, puzzled. Then realisation dawned. "Of course, the scar. This, me—on you. This does not bring up good memories, does it?" He opened his mouth to say something more, when the mocking light died in his eyes. She still hadn't looked at him, but he saw utter defeat cross over her face. Even in the plane, beneath the panic and the desperation, there had been steely resolve. Something that told him to watch out for her; that she was someone not to be tampered with. Now, she looked broken. Had he finally broken her? He was contemplating what this meant to him and why there was a niggling within him that implied he cared, when all of a sudden she shifted her weight and managed to slam him right in the groin with her upper thigh. He grunted in agony and his weight eased enough off of her so that she could shove him roughly to the side and squirm away. She rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud, then dove underneath it to grab her field hockey stick. It was right at the wall at the head of her bed, and she wriggled further underneath to grab it. She was touching it with the tips of her fingers when she felt a steely hand wrap around her stockinged ankle and yank her violently out from under the bed. She let out a surprised shout and hit her head against the wood panelling underneath. Once she was entirely out, she drew in a breath to let out a blood-curdling, attention-getting scream, but Jackson's hand clamped over her mouth once more.

"You, my dear Lisa, are quite stupid. Guess what happens if you scream? Just guess. Come on, throw any wild suggestion out there. I'm all ears. Can ya guess?" He reached to his side and unsheathed a sharp, deadly knife. "Ding, ding, ding! That's right. You _die_." He placed the weapon against her neck and a shudder ran through her body. "So, do me a favour and shut the hell up. For once." He regarded the position they were in, him on top of her, knife at her neck. A slow smirk grew on his face and the maliciousness he had stifled earlier came out in full. "This seems a bit familiar, no? Here we are again, back where we started, but this time it's a little _too_ similar, isn't it?"

The smirk faded when she began to heave.

"For the love of—" he bit off. He could feel her diaphragm and esophagus working underneath his body, knew the convulsions weren't being faked. In a swift motion, he dragged her up and into the adjoining bathroom, dropping behind her as she fell over the toilet and threw up the meagre contents of her stomach. He unconsciously collected her hair in his hands, holding it out of her face as she vomited. He clenched his jaw and looked away, disgusted at what he was seeing and disgusted with himself. He had, once again, let his emotions get the better of him. What a big man he was, terrorising a young woman into vomiting by bringing up memories of her traumatic rape experience. Jackson turned his attention back to Lisa. She was still heaving, but nothing was coming up anymore, her whole body shuddering with the force of her motions.

"Lisa," he murmured softly, letting go of her hair to rub her back. "Stop now, there's nothing left to throw up." He reached over her to flush the toilet and she scooted out from under his arms.

Her heaves had turned into slow, heart-wrenching sobs, as she buried her face in her hands and wept on the cold tile floor. He felt like scum. Nobody had made Jackson Rippner feel like scum in a long time. He sat there uncomfortably, the knife forgotten on her bedroom floor, with his knees up and his arms hanging limply over them. Lisa had curled into the fetal position beside the toilet and had now wrapped her arms around her legs and placed her head on her knees. Her shoulders shook with her crying, and he could hear the great, convulsing intakes of breath she took.

"I hate you, I hate you," she moaned after a long, excruciating silence, her voice muffled against her legs. "Why can't you leave me alone? I hate being weak, I hate what you do to me, what he did to me. I just want to be myself again, and I can't, I just fucking can't."

"How did I make you weak?" Jackson questioned sharply. "You beat the everlasting shit out of me. Listen to my voice, look at my scars! I've never fought anyone like you, so untrained but so damn relentless. That's not weakness."

"No, no, it is." She looked up at him, eyes swimming with tears, her face hot and flush. Her beauty knocked him out, like it had when he first started watching her, like it had when he saw her up close, like it had when she was kicking his ass. "I failed. I couldn't stop him, I couldn't stop you. Look, you're here now. You're in my home, in my _room_, attacking me again. That's not stopping you, that's not winning."

"Yes, but Lisa," he tried to reason with her, "you _can't_ beat me. No one can. I work for too many powerful people. I _am_ too powerful." Surprisingly, his last statement came out sounding more factual than arrogant, and she knew it to be true.

She shook her head. "Someone could. Somehow, someway. You're only human, after all. But I couldn't. I never could."

He shook his head right back at her. "You came closer than anyone," he admitted. "You were the first time I ever fucked up, and I paid the price for it, at your hand. Not even my superiors had that kind of retribution. After I failed, they gave me a warning: not to mess up again. They know me; they know how valuable I am to everyone. They knew they couldn't get rid of me."

She stared at him. "I thought you said you could get in a lot of trouble for this. For screwing up," she clarified, trying to recall his words during the flight.

He shrugged. "I thought I could. I guess I even underestimated myself."

She regarded him warily. "Why are you here?" she asked finally. There was a single night-light in the bathroom that illuminated pretty much nothing. His face was cloaked in shadows. She could hardly see his eyes, let alone the colour that haunted her dreams. He was dressed in dark slacks and a light-coloured dress shirt, both rumpled from their ordeal, she assumed. He sat in front of the open door, back against the door jamb. She supposed she could try and fight. Kick him, punch him, scream her head off. The knife was safely out of his hands and his reach. She could cause a big fuss if she wanted to.

But she was so damn tired.

Tired of fighting, tired of being scared, tired of everything. Too tired to even hate him. All she could do was stare at him with a world-weary distrust that she reserved for all strangers.

As if Jackson Rippner was a stranger.

He shrugged again and spoke, breaking her out of her reverie. "Would you believe I missed you?"

She started at his words, then scoffed and looked away, not answering.

She missed the tightening of his jaw and the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard, then winced. It still hurt to swallow hard.

They sat like that in silence for a few moments. Her radiator turned on and hummed to life with a pop. She stretched her legs out in front of her, then withdrew them again to reach under herself to take off her torn nylons. He watched her do it and she tried to ignore him as she peeled them off and then threw them in the garbage.

He stared at her outstretched legs, then looked up at her. She met his eyes. "Nice," he remarked, approvingly.

She shot him a dirty look. "Why don't you just tell me why you're here?"

"I already did."

"Oh, are we going to play this game again?" she questioned, referring to the first time she asked him about his job, on the plane.

He cocked his head and regarded her with a half smile. "You didn't believe me that time, and I'd been telling the truth. Remember?"

She looked away and made a non-committal sound. Silence reigned once more before she broke it. "So, you're here because you missed me. Why? I didn't miss you. In fact, I never wanted to see you again, after I _left you for dead_." Her voice escalated at the end, fists clenching as she leaned forward slightly.

She saw his eyes moving over her searchingly and it unnerved her. "Yes, you did."

She let out a frustrated shout. "How would you know? You terrorised me, you tormented me. You said hateful things and made me feel—awful. You hurt me, you hurt my family. You chased me around my father's house and threw me down the stairs. You made the police question my motives and terrorist affiliations. You made me lose business to my hotel. How? How could I miss someone like that?" Her tirade ended with a genuine question, as everything she said fell upon itself and she realised that despite it all, she thought about him too much. Too much to say that she didn't miss him.

He said nothing for a long time. The clouds parted outside the open blinds of her window, and a stream of moonlight shone in, lighting his face and body so that she could see him more clearly. The glowing light gave him an ethereal quality, made moreso by his chillingly silver eyes. "Because we're the same person, Lise."

She shook her head, never breaking her gaze with him. "I'm not like you."

"Yes." He smiled, showing his straight, white teeth. "You are. You're exactly like me. You liked it when you were in control, you liked when you were able to stalk me, to hurt me like I hurt you. It gave you a rush that was more than terror. It was exhilaration. Fulfilment. You know what the chase is like and you thrive on it."

She shook her head again, her eyes slowly growing wetter. "You're wrong."

He shook his head back at her. "I'm not."

She still shook her head, but she was no longer looking at him. "I'm tired," she announced, finally. "Will you leave?"

He stared at her for a beat before smoothly getting to his feet. He held out his hand to help her up, but she grabbed the toilet seat instead. He hid his smile behind his hand and a small cough. She brushed past him, emitting a noticeable tremor as she touched him. He followed her back to her bed.

"I trust you won't call the police?" he wondered casually, swiftly picking up his knife as he saw her eyes trail to it.

She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "They won't do anything, anyway. They know who you are, what you are. They know that you're bigger than they'll ever be and work for bosses that they'll never meet. They've already proven their inadequacy. So no, I won't call the police." She crossed her arms and looked away. "I'll just spend the rest of my life feeling stalked. Unsafe," she muttered.

"Hey." He lifted her chin with his finger. She jerked it away. His eyes flashed and he grabbed it back, firmly but not violently. "As long as you don't give me a reason to hurt you, I won't. Our business regarding the red-eye is done. The mission failed, people were apprehended, life moves on. Our personal business, however… Well that, dear Lise, _that_ is just beginning." He winked at her and released her chin, taking a step away from her.

"_What_ 'personal' business?" she spat as he turned his back on her and began to leave.

He paused, back still to her, and turned his head slightly to the side so that she saw part of his profile.

"I did say I was going to steal you, didn't I?"

The words hung in the room as he took another two steps and was gone. She heard a click coming from somewhere near the kitchen and jogged out to see where he had come in from. The apartment was silent, all the windows and doors closed. He had vanished, without a trace. Lisa went back to bed on shaky legs and took off her work clothes, finally. Once she was freshly scrubbed, in her pyjamas and cradling the hockey stick like a stuffed animal, she got under the sheets and lay back down.

It was a long time before sleep came again.


	2. Two

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One. 

**Author's Note**: Thanks to your overwhelming feedback, here is the second chapter! I tried to send a private message to all who reviewed my story to personally thank you. I hope you all received it, and I'll try to keep that up as long as I can.

As an aside, I have to give a special shout-out to my muse, James Blunt, whose music kept me writing. Seriously people, if you haven't heard any of his songs, get your hands on some immediately. "Cry" is a personal favourite, same with "Goodbye My Lover". His whole CD pretty much rocks. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

A week went by without incident.

This time, Lisa knew better than to let her guard down, though. As a result, she barely slept, forcing her eyes to stay open and her hands to remain clenched around her weapon of choice—the ever-present, shockingly overused field hockey stick—even as her body screamed for rest. She had an anxious feeling in her stomach that never went away and so she hardly ate, her weight beginning to drop once more. Her attitude at work became listless at best, ill-tempered at worst. She was beginning to get used to the perpetual looks of worry that her father and co-workers bestowed upon her. She was sick and tired of those looks. Sick and tired of not eating, not sleeping. Sick and tired of always being on edge, always looking around corners expecting a monster to jump out at every turn.

Truth be told, she was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

This was her current contemplation at three a.m. as she watching an infomercial about a tiny blender that was making the nastiest-looking green sauce she had ever seen, and then spreading it on top of white pasta. Man, she really wanted scrambled eggs.

"That's disgusting."

Lisa whipped her head around so fast, her haphazard ponytail knocked her on the other side of her face. She choked on her gasp as she turned, her eyes locking on Jackson leaning against the wall inside her main hallway. However, his gaze was over her head on the television screen, his full upper lip curled in distaste.

Keeping her eyes on him, she slowly reached under the blanket on her lap for the hockey stick. His eyes lazily flicked from the television set to her and contemplated her for a beat before flicking right back to the TV.

"Looking for this?" he wondered, casually producing her tool of self-defence from behind his back, twirling it through his fingers like a baton and then holding it upright, the blunted curve almost hitting the ceiling. His eyes never left the screen.

Lisa regarded him disbelievingly for a moment, her hand frantically scrambling under the cover. "How did you—?"

"You dozed off at about quarter to two. Really, you make it too easy." He looked away from the infomercial again to flash her a brief smirk.

She closed her eyes and breathed in heavily through her nose, trying to calm her shattered nerves. He may not have succeeded in killing her after the red-eye, but she swore he was killing her now. "What do you _want_?" she bit out, clenching her hands together so that he wouldn't notice how they shook.

"I just wanted to talk," he responded simply, noticing how her hands shook. He sauntered over to the other side of the couch, swinging the hockey stick like a cane. "May I sit?"

She looked at him incredulously, all bloodshot eyes and dark circles. She couldn't believe he was asking her that. She couldn't believe he was there.

"Thank you," he said as graciously as if she'd responded in the affirmative, moving her blanket to sit on an unoccupied spot of her black leather couch. He sank deeply into the cushions and let out a heartfelt sigh. "Comfortable."

She continued to glare at him venomously. "I'm going to scream."

"No, you won't." He brushed off her comment like a pesky fly.

Enraged, she raised an eyebrow at him as she sucked in a deep breath and got about a squeak out before his one hand clamped around her mouth and his other around the back of her head, dragging her face down to meet his.

"Seriously? Seriously. Shut up." He had to make it a point to glare at her so that he wouldn't allow himself to smile at her impertinence. The girl lived to spite him, and damn him, but he enjoyed it.

She shoved him, hard enough to make him let go of her. "God damn you, you know that?" she hissed. "Don't you have anyone else to victimise?"

He scoffed at her. "You made yourself the victim, Lise. It didn't have to be that way."

"Uh, no, _Jack_. I made _you_ a victim, remember? How's the trachea? The leg? Does the shoulder still sting? Did I get a couple ribs, too?" She couldn't help the triumphantly malicious grin that spread over her face. This quickly faded when she saw the irate look on his. She unconsciously swallowed hard but refused to look away, despite the way those bitterly cold orbs caused chills to track up her spine. Then, as quickly as it appeared it was gone and he chuckled.

"I sincerely admire your spirit," he told her. "I do."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks."

He nodded, then turned away from her to look at the TV. "Are you going to scream again?" he asked her after a minute in silence spent watching the magical blender infomercial.

Lisa, whose eyes were also focussed on but not seeing the TV set, just shook her head.

"That's my girl."

She whipped her head around to look at him. "I'm not your girl." She meant for it to come out forcefully, but when it pushed past her lips it sounded like nothing more than a whisper.

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Aren't you?"

If he had insisted, if he had made some sort of snide or vulgar remark, it would have been easier to refute, easier to get furious, to snatch that hockey stick away from him and crack him over the head with it, then call the police and hit him a few more times while she waited for them to come. As it was, she wasn't sure why she hadn't already done that. She told herself that he could easily overpower her, and had in fact done so on numerous occasions. She knew she was weaker now, physically, from malnutrition and lack of sleep. Even at her best, she could only attack him from a distance. Once he had his hands on her…

"So, I suppose we're at an impasse," he remarked after a few more minutes of silence. "You're not going to scream, I'm not going to leave. Seems we're stuck with each other," he ended with a cheeky grin.

"Don't you have anything better to do with your time?" she wondered sharply, frustration evident.

"Not really," he replied honestly. "I'm between assignments, I guess you could say."

"Mmm. So all terrorists harass former victims in their spare time?"

"I told you," he said, with the weariness of one whose had to explain the same thing numerous times, "I'm not a terrorist. I'm a manager."

"Ohh…" She nodded understandingly. "So you manage the terrorists?"

He gave her an insincere smile. "You're goading me, Lise."

"You're quick, Jack."

He opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut and leaned back once more. "You're good to notice," was all he said.

She made a non-committal noise and turned her attention back to the television.

"You look tired." His comment made her turn to him in surprise.

"Thanks," she said dryly.

He met her gaze. "I'm being serious. You're not sleeping, you're not eating. You overwork yourself, and then you do nothing to compensate."

Her mouth dropped open in an incredulous expression. "It's _your_ fault!"

"_My_ fault? Come now, Lisa. You can't blame _everything_ on me."

"Why not?" she exploded. "You—"

"I know, I know. I terrorised you, I victimised you, I made your life hell. Boo hoo. Get over it. I made you start living again, and you know it."

"_This_ is living?" she demanded to know, gesturing wildly at herself, at the television, at him. "_This_? Being up at three-thirty in the morning with my would-be murderer, watching infomercials?"

He shrugged. "You had it in you, you had the potential to move on. And you did. You were, anyway, for those three months I wasn't around."

"Isn't that telling you something, Jackson? The three months _you weren't around_," she hissed.

He shrugged again, but she couldn't miss the tension in his jaw. "Tell me you didn't think about me," he demanded, and she gasped at the intensity in his ice-blue eyes when he turned on her. "Tell me that not a day went by where I was in your mind."

"You know that I can't do that," she replied, wearily. "But I can tell you this, Jackson. I thought about you the same way I thought about _him_."

The fire in his eyes dulled to a cool lethalness. He was silent.

She regretted her words. For as much as he hurt her, as much as he had terrified her, and made her say and do things she hadn't wanted to do, there wasn't the blunt, repulsive hatred towards him that she felt towards her other attacker. There was a passionate loathing, but she didn't fear him. She wasn't disgusted by him, like she was with the other one, as much as she knew she should be. She was sick with herself for the way she was reacting to him, but even at that moment, looking at him sitting on her couch, watching her TV, she felt a tug at her heart. She accounted it to sleep-deprivation, but it was there nonetheless. And it frightened her more than Jackson Rippner ever could.

She bit her tongue to not take back her cruel words, remembering all his cruel words to her, and simply waited for him to respond.

"Who?" His tone was blandly interested. He knew who.

Her mouth worked silently for a moment. "What do you mean _who_? You know who."

"I don't know who, I want you to tell me who. Why don't you tell me, Lise?" He turned to her with an open expression. She could call it friendly if it were on anyone else's face, if the subject matter were any different.

"Stop it," she told him, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"No." His voice escalated in volume as hers decreased, the friendly expression gone and replaced with something much more sinister. "I want you to tell me. Who? Who did you think about the same way you thought about me? Who had the same effect on your life that I did?"

The ever-present tears were tracking down her cheek, but Jackson was relentless.

"Hmm? Tell me, Lisa Reisert, please. I'm _dying_ to know. Who's this 'him' you speak of? Who is _he_? And _what_ makes us the same?"

"You both—you both—" She pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head.

"What? _What_?" He had gripped her arms and shook her, once.

"You both took away my life."

The room was dead silent. Even the people on television were between ads.

He released her arms with a shove and let out a disgusted breath. "Nobody can take away the life of someone who wants to keep it."

Lisa looked up and her eyes cleared. "Oh, what is _that_? Psychobabble bullshit. People are murdered everyday—fathers, mothers, people that love life and have things worth living for. You're telling me that these people didn't want to keep their lives when they were shot in a drive-by or stabbed for their purse? That's lame even for you, Jack."

He looked at her condescendingly. "We aren't talking about random acts of violence here, Lisa. I don't mean life in the sense of your living being. I mean life in the _way_ you live it. I'm telling you that you aren't alive. Does that mean that you're not breathing? Of course not. But look at yourself—up at God-knows what time, watching crappy TV, putting five hundred calories in your body a day, most of which comes from a shitty cup of hotel coffee, and you're telling me that you're living up to your potential? That you're making each day count?"

"_It's your fault_!" She cried out so loudly that the room sang. "You made fun of me for blaming you before, but it's true, you _fucking asshole_." She grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him up, then shoved him back once he was on his feet. "I was getting my life back together and you _fucked_ it _all up_ for me _again_." With each emphasis she smacked him hard on the chest. "You didn't make me live, you made me want to _die_, because you made me think about you and _I didn't want to_." She was openly sobbing now, hysterical and inconsolable, continuously pulling and shoving at him and not noticing that he didn't respond in kind. "You made me _feel_ again and _I didn't want to_. I _hate_ you, I hate what you've done and I hope you _die_." Her final words were punctuated by a knock-out punch directly to his left chiselled cheek bone. He let her have it, but as soon as she reared back to do it again, he grabbed her by the thick straps of her tank top and slammed her roughly into the wall behind and to the right of the couch, where he had been casually leaning not even an hour before. She let out a hoarse, moaning wail and slumped to the ground, crying piteously. He went right down with her and, without a second thought, gathered her into his arms. She resisted at first, but he refused to loosen his grip and soon she was grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and bawling in huge, gulping sobs. Every now and then she would lament how much she hated him, throwing in a curse word for good measure. He murmured to her gently, nonsense words and noises, rubbing her back in soothing circles.

He knew what he had done to her, tearing down the defences she had so carefully created after her rape. He also knew that she had become too dependent on those defences, and forgotten who she had been before. He hadn't even known her before the attack, hadn't even know _about_ the attack until she'd told him, but he did know that the person she had been presenting on a daily basis was not the Lisa Reisert of three years ago. There were shadows of that past Lisa, but it wasn't enough. He had come back to finish what the red-eye started. It had been an assignment. Now, it was a mission.

He didn't know why he so badly wanted to unearth this old Lisa, to see the woman she had been after getting to know the woman she'd become. Sometimes though, Jackson knew not to ask such questions of himself. The kind of questions he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to. He had already accepted and admitted the fact that he was intrigued by her; a more zealous person would call it "obsessed". The weeks he'd spent recovering after the various and sundry injuries he had collected subsequent to meeting Miss Reisert allowed him to do a lot of thinking. Again, some may find "obsessing" more appropriate. At first, the rage had had yet to subside. It consumed him, drove him to heal if only to inflict further pain on _her_. Soon, that pain turned to a grudging respect. Respect that turned into admiration. Admiration that turned into a week-long stint of following her every move once more, simply to ensure that she was alive and kicking, still a workaholic, still a daddy's girl.

But it wasn't enough.

And so he found himself in her home for the second time, comforting her as she cried. She was such a little thing, too. Average height for a woman, but so frail in stature. A helpless exterior that belied a steel-tough interior. Even that, however, he could feel slipping away with each day that passed. And despite what he said, not because of ego or what have you, Jackson believed that it was he who could save her.

He always did have a bit of a "knight in shining armour" complex.

In all honesty, though, he knew that her quick thinking and the circumstances surrounding Flight 1019 gave her a renewed sense of validation and worth. Gave her a glimmer of the life she had left vacant for so long. She could stop going through the motions, finally, and move on. There was only one thing missing.

Him.

Her cries had subsided to sniffling whimpers. She seemed to regain her surroundings and made a motion to distance herself from him. Before he let go, he couldn't help but drop his mouth onto her fragrant hair and hold it there for a moment. Not kissing, just touching. She let him do it for longer than she should have, then shoved him away.

They regarded each other, him casual and her wary. She wiped her face, scrubbing at it with her hands, then looked at the wall, the ceiling, her hands, anywhere but him.

"You should sleep," he spoke finally. She nodded acquiescence. "Here." He held out his hand as he stood, ever the gentleman. She ignored it as she pulled herself up by leaning against the wall.

"Is this the end now?" she wondered quietly, her face still turned away from his. "Are you finally leaving for good?"

"I think you know the answer to that, Lise," he responded gently, then told her anyway, "I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Yeah."

He looked at her searchingly. "How do you feel about that?"

She met his gaze. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "I just don't know anymore."

"Would you rather we set up a specific day or days? Specific times?"

She let her shoulders droop with fatigue. "This is insane," she scoffed, hysterical laughter in her voice, tears in her eyes. "I can't believe I'm scheduling meeting times with Jackson Rippner. My father would have a conniption fit. _I_ should be having a conniption fit."

"Why aren't you?" he wondered calmly.

This time she did laugh. "I just don't know. I think—" She cut herself off and merely shook her head.

"Just say it," he urged, his quicksilver eyes cutting through her.

She forced herself to meet his gaze and say what she had been thinking for too long. "I'm tired of being alone," she began simply. "Nobody has been able to fill the void within me that has been there for too long. I don't like you, nor should I, but you don't scare me anymore, either. So, if you are what I—need," she choked on the word, "to feel complete again…so be it. I will schedule a goddamn meeting time. But so help me God, if there is even a _hint_ of a threat, or danger to _my_ well-being or my family's—"

"You'll release the hounds, I know." He waved off her concern. "So, what'll it be? Once a week, twice?"

"Once," she said quickly. "Just once."

"Day?" He pretended to examine his fingernails, feigning indifference.

She had to think about it. "What about Sundays?"

He put on a wounded face. "Lisa, I'm hurt. You keeping Friday and Saturday open for hot dates?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. I don't want to rule anything out."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. But I can only come after ten."

"At night?" she said, incredulous.

"Did you really want me to come in broad daylight?"

"What are you doing during the day that you can only come after ten?" She responded to his question with one of her own.

His lips turned up at one side in a half-smile. "That's my business."

She scoffed. "I love how you know everything about me and I know nothing about you."

"I don't divulge what I'm unwilling to tell." He shrugged.

"I wasn't willing! You found it out by force."

"Oh, please, Lisa you're an open book. The most incompetent puppy with a crush could have found out whatever he wanted about you."

She scowled. "Listen, do you want to do this or not?"

"You'll be tired for work Monday," he informed her, and it took a second for her brain to acknowledge the change in subject.

"Mondays I don't start until three p.m., Jack. I thought you knew that, hot-shot stalker-boy," she taunted.

He smirked back, refusing to be fazed. "I stand by my statement."

She glared at him, a new thought occurring to her. "I hope you don't think that this is going to escalate to anything beyond what it already is, Jackson. I don't know what you intend—"

"Please, Lisa. Your virtue will remain intact," he teased. "Scout's honour."

She flushed. "That's not what I—"

"Yes, it was."

She looked at him disbelievingly. "Arrogant prick," she commented, amazed.

He smiled charmingly. "What can I say? So, starting this Sunday, after ten…do we have a date?"

She glowered. "We have a meeting time, to purge ourselves of this…insistence for a relationship. I can't see it lasting much longer than a month, to be honest."

He chuckled. "That's for us to decide now, isn't it?" The "us" he referred to clearly implied "him".

"We'll see, Jack." She crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow. "It's four a.m. on Thursday, however. I have to get up for work in three hours. As you've already so kindly commented on, I look tired. And that is because I am tired. I'll see you on Sunday." She had to physically force herself to not choke on those words as a shudder almost seized her. She had truly gone insane.

He looked at her, a barely suppressed smile touching his lips, his eyes shining. "I look forward to it. May I walk you to your room?"

"And if I say no?" she wondered, knowing the answer.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear you," he responded cheerfully, crooking his elbow in invitation.

She refused it by simply walking to her bedroom by herself. He followed her.

"Turn off the TV," she told him over her shoulder as she pulled down her covers. Surprisingly, she heard him leave the room and obey. Even heard him shaking out the blanket and tossing the pillows back on the couch. Amazed, she got into bed, and after a few moments, he came back in.

"Don't _you_ ever sleep?" she asked, amazed that he didn't even seem tired.

He shrugged. "I never get much sleep in my line of work, so I learn to take advantage of the time I have. I sleep sporadically, never just at night. Rarely at night, actually."

She yawned, the comfort of her bed pulling her further into her sleepiness. "That's too bad. Night's the best time to sleep."

"Not like you would know," he chided gently, a soft smile on his face.

She marvelled at how it seemed almost…tender. She chalked it up to her drooping eyelids and descent into sleep.

She could feel herself fading further and further away and she knew she should stay awake, if only to watch him and ensure he left, but she wasn't sure she could. "Leave now," she murmured, drawing the covers tighter and yawning again.

"What," he joked, "no goodnight kiss?"

But she was already asleep.

He let the smile slowly drop from his face, savouring it, as he knew it was one of his very few genuine ones. He watched her for a few minutes as she slept, watched the rise and fall of her chest under the covers, the gentle parting of her lips, and the way her limp curls caressed her cheek, taunting him.

His mind told him to leave as his feet took him closer to her. Told him to step away as he crouched down in front of her. He brushed his archnemesis the curl away. With a feather-light touch that only an assassin could possess, he cupped her cheek feeling the smoothness of her creamy skin. His thumb gently traced the hollows under her eyes, trying to erase the dark circles. Her breath came out in a little sigh.

And he took his goodnight kiss.


	3. Three

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One. 

**Author's Notes**: Man, I am just pumping out these chapters. Lucky you guys. ;) Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing. You motivate me to write faster. Enjoy Chapter Three!

**Updated Author's Notes**: Due to some displeasure I was feeling with regards to this chapter, I've edited it a bit and reposted it. There are no _majorly_ significant changes (i.e. plot twists, character introductions, etc) but you will notice a difference in some of the dialogue and such. A thank you goes out to LithiumAddict for not allowing me to settle. And a big thank you as well to those of you who have already reviewed. Like I said, you keep me going. Enjoy (the new) Chapter Three!

* * *

"There's a young man in there."

Lisa started, almost dropping her keys as she tried to place them in the lock. Clutching her paper bag of groceries tighter, she whirled around to see her neighbour Mrs. Greenberg standing there in her housecoat and slippers, leaning against the doorframe of her open door.

"Excuse me?" she said, her voice cracking as she turned and looked warily at her own closed door. It was only eight-thirty p.m.

"In David's apartment," Mrs. Greenberg continued, motioning across the hall. "A young man came by earlier and he hasn't left."

"Maybe it's his brother?" Lisa said, although she knew that the sexual orientation of her young, handsome neighbour was not something that the elderly, set-in-her-ways woman would approve of. She tried to place her key in the lock once more, attempting to keep her hand steady.

"Hmph. Maybe." Mrs. Greenberg peered at Lisa keenly. "How have you been sleeping, sweetheart?"

Lisa, who was halfway in her apartment at this point, took a step back to look back at the other woman. "Why?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

Now Lisa was fully back in the hallway, clutching the grocery bag even tighter. "Why do you ask, Mrs. Greenberg?"

"I've told you to call me Ann, darling," Mrs. Greenberg said with a kindly smile.

Lisa held onto her patience. "Excuse me, Ann. Why do you ask?"

"Because of the screams I keep hearing."

Lisa looked at her neighbour warily, contemplating. Should she tell Mrs. Greenberg about Jackson? What would she say? What could the woman do, anyway? She was pushing seventy-five, at least. She would just call the police, and Lisa was sick of police officers. What could the cops do with someone above the law?

"Night terrors," she heard herself say, a false smile plastered on her face. "You're right, it is like nightmares. Stress, I guess. I've talked to my doctor about it." Smile, smile, smile.

Mrs. Greenberg tsk'ed sympathetically. "You've got to take better care of yourself, darling. This isn't healthy."

"I know, Mrs.—Ann. Thank you for your concern." Lisa started to go back into her apartment again.

"Of course, of course. You let me know if you need anything."

"Yes, thank you. Thank you."

"Anytime, darling. You take care." Both women found their way back into their respective apartments, and Lisa shut the door firmly behind her. She let out a big, shaky sigh and attempted to collect her bearings. It was bad enough her life was a mess, but now she was inadvertently inviting her neighbours into it, too. Making a right into her open-concept kitchen, she placed the grocery bag on the counter and tossed her keys in their ceramic dish. She was just shrugging off her jacket, when she heard a voice behind her.

"Hey, honey. Back so soon?"

"Oh, Jesus!" Her whole body jerked in surprise and she got caught in her coat trying to turn around.

"No," he replied calmly, smiling as he hoisted himself off the wall behind her. "Jackson."

All she could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, still stuck.

"Here," he said, coming towards her. "Let me help." He motioned towards the grocery bag.

She jerked it out of his reach. "I thought you weren't going to be here until ten."

"I finished early. Grocery shopping?"

"I was out of milk, so I stopped by the convenience store. What, does stalker-duty not include checking out the contents of my fridge?" she snapped, still angry and reeling. She jerked off her coat and tossed it on the counter, then unconsciously placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

The smile he gave her unnerved her. As all his smiles did. "See for yourself."

She shot him a wary look. What was that supposed to mean?

His expression was the condescending one that he so favoured. "The fridge? Check it out."

Still maintaining the same sceptical appearance, she stalked over to her fridge and yanked it open. Empty just earlier that day, before she had left to run errands, it was now stocked full. Fruits, vegetables, breads, bagels, cold cuts, cheeses, yogurts. And, of course, milk. Her mouth dropped of its own volition and all she could do was gape. She then turned to look at him, incredulous and speechless.

He met her gaze. "I told you, you need to eat."

She scowled at him, unimpressed with his supposed care for her well-being. "Hey, maybe if you can cook, too, I'll keep you around."

His face broke into a genuine smile, one lacking the usually patronising or sinister overtones. "Lisa Reisert making a joke with her 'would-be murderer'? The man who 'terrorised' her? Nicely done."

She shot him a withering look. "I was mocking you. There's a difference."

He maintained his smile. "Not to me. Nice pants."

She looked down at her fitted tweed dress pants. "What?"

"I've never seen you in anything but dress pants and skirts—at least not when you knew you were going to have company," he added, remembering the occasions when he'd seen her in her pyjamas.

"You're one to talk," she scoffed, motioning to his own dress pants ensemble.

"I don't wear skirts."

"You know what I mean."

Jackson shrugged. "My appearance is part of my job."

"So is mine."

"You're off-duty."

"So are you."

His eyes glimmered. There was silence.

"Are you ever going to tell me why you're really doing this?" she asked finally, moving over to take her meagre collection of groceries out of their bag. They would just have to share room with his, she decided.

He let out a hefty sigh. "Would you stop? Seriously, Lise. It's getting old."

"I have a right to know," she snapped, holding a carton of milk in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other as though she were a scale.

"You have plenty of rights. Exercise more important ones. Voted lately?"

She gave him a scornful look before placing her groceries in the fridge, shoving aside some of his. "This is insane," she muttered, head in the refrigerator.

"So you've said on prior occasions. Why don't you just relax and enjoy my company?" If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was pleading with her. But she knew better.

"Because my knee and my shoulder and my wrist still hurt whenever it rains, for being tossed down a flight of stairs," she retorted, slamming the door shut so hard that the freezer door popped open. She slammed that, too.

"You stabbed me in the windpipe and the leg _and_ shot me," he pointed out.

"I also tenderised you with a field hockey stick," she reminded him, smugly. "And that was all self-defence!"

"The tracheotomy wasn't," he told her. "Perhaps I should call the police on _you_. I can cry assault, too."

Her mouth dropped open. As sick as it was, he was probably right. She attempted to regain her position. "If I called my dad, he'd be here in a second to finish the job," she threatened.

It didn't have the desired effect. He laughed at her. "Yeah, but then I'd kill him."

For some reason, she was shocked. Damn her, but she was getting used to the diplomatic Jackson who was seemingly trying to get on her good side. "No, you wouldn't," she tried calling his bluff.

"Lisa." There was the patronising tone again. "Just because I like you and am not physically hurting you right now, doesn't mean I'm any less of a 'bad guy', mmkay?"

She breathed out an incredulous laugh. "You're pleading your case _real_ well, Jackson. Keep it up, it _really_ makes me want to spend more time with you."

He scoffed. "As if you have a choice."

His control over her infuriated her. She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth were going to shatter. "Fine, Jack. You're right. I can't physically make you leave, nor can I keep you out apparently. But I _can_ just not talk to you."

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips. "I dare you to try."

Fifteen minutes later, the only sound in room was the television set. For the past thirteen minutes it had been like that. The first two minutes had been spent with Jackson mocking Lisa in an attempt to get her to speak. When that didn't work, he fell silent, too. They had somehow both ended up on the leather couch in her living room, sitting rigidly at opposite ends, a show about reckless homemakers playing in the background. It had become a childish battle of who would crack first, and both were determined to win. In the sixteenth minute, Lisa got up. Jackson refused to look at her, instead inwardly berating himself for participating in such utter foolishness but still unwilling to break the silence.

She made her way into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice, which she then carried back to the couch. He allowed himself a sidelong glance as she sipped the vibrant red juice slowly. Sip after sip. When there was about a finger left, she made a move to put it down on the couch. At the last second, she deliberately tipped it over his lap.

"You bitch!" he exploded, jumping off the couch and untucking his shirt in a feeble attempt to prevent the sticky juice from seeping further into his clothes.

She laughed loudly and uninhibitedly, her head thrown back.

He looked at her, murder on his face that quickly faded when he saw her laughing. She had such a ridiculous, braying laugh, he couldn't help the barely-suppressed grin that almost erupted. Sure, his shirt was ruined. But her laughter almost made it worthwhile.

Almost.

"I win," she informed him smugly, still laughing and holding the empty glass like a trophy.

"Yeah, but now you lose, because I'm going to kill you," Jackson growled, holding his shirt away from his body with his right hand, then making a half-hearted attempt to grab her with his left.

She evaded him easily. "Relax. I have the Shout Gel."

He was scrubbing at his shirt with a napkin he found on the coffee table and didn't look at her. "The what?"

"Shout Gel. It gets out stains. Give me your shirt." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised what she said and her gesturing hand dropped to her side.

He stopped what he was doing, too, and looked at her. Seeing the expression on her face, he allowed a smirk to cross over his. "Really, Lise. There are easier ways to seduce me. Just asking, for instance."

She blushed. He was amazed that a twenty-eight year old woman could still blush. "Fine, then let it stain. What do I care?" She crossed her arms and sat back down.

"No, no," he interjected. "You started this, you can finish it." With that, he swiftly unbuttoned his cream-coloured dress shirt and peeled it off. He was still wearing an undershirt, but it clung to every defined muscle and curve on his slender, but well-toned body and did absolutely nothing to conceal his sinewy biceps and strong arms. He noticed her noticing, and he would be lying to himself if he said it didn't fill him with inordinate pleasure to know that she found his body pleasing, if her flustered and slightly awed expression was any indication of that. It was only for a brief moment or two, though, before that feeling of pleasure quickly began to turn unpleasant as his mind started to question his motives behind it. He tossed the shirt at her to break the spell. "Clean it, woman."

It worked in snapping her out of her reverie, like he knew it would. "Clean it yourself, _Jack_-off." She threw it back at him, quite deliberately in his face.

Jack-off? He sighed. "I apologise. Seriously, though, can you clean it? O Wise Lise, of the Shout Gel?" he added, with a smile that was used to having orders obeyed.

She rolled her eyes and sighed back, grudgingly taking it from him. "Only because I can't stand to see a stain. Hang on, let me grab you another shirt." She left the room with his stained top to go into her bedroom.

"Somehow I don't think your shirts will fit me," he called out to her, rubbing his arms against the chill in her apartment. Could the girl not afford heating?

"Don't be so sure about that," was the deadpan response.

He stood upright in affront as she came back with an oversized, grey Yale t-shirt. He accepted it from her with distaste. "You shouldn't have. A Yalie, huh?"

A shadow crossed over her face. "It was my brother's."

"Was?" His voice was muffled as he pulled it over his head.

"Yeah." She looked away. "He died five years ago."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she replied simply. "I'm going to take the stain out now." She motioned to the shirt as she backed into the laundry room, adjacent to her bedroom.

He shrugged. "Okay. I'll be here."

She looked upwards, seemingly for guidance. "Yeah. I know," she muttered as she took her leave.

She came back five minutes later. Jackson was flipping through a book he found on her coffee table, a large hardcover detailing the history of Manolo Blahnik. She suppressed a smirk at his reading choice and flopped down beside him with a sigh. He looked at her briefly before turning back to the book.

"Okay, I put the gel on it and threw it in the washing machine. It should be as good as new soon."

"Good."

She turned fully in her seat and raised her eyebrow at him, giving him an expectant look. He met her gaze after a beat, seemingly more interested in shoes than her.

"Well, I'd say thank you, but it's your fault it's like that to begin with," he pointed out.

"Still," she said haughtily. "I didn't have to do it."

He sighed heavily. "Thank you."

She nodded regally. He turned back to the book and she watched her show, and they fell into a somewhat-comfortable extended silence. When it was a commercial, Jackson looked up and placed the book back on her table. He then saw fit to break the tentative quiet.

"How did your brother die?"

Lisa was shocked at his audacity. "What makes you think for a second that you have a right to know that?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know what your problem is?"

"Oh, please, enlighten me," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You don't talk to people. You shut them out, bottle your feelings in, and deal with the hurt all by yourself. That's why you never heal. 'I'm fine, I'm fine', that's all you say. You use it as your mask, but you're not fine and you haven't been fine for a long time. Five years, is what I'm guessing."

She met his accusatory look with a steady one of her own. "You're right."

Surprise rippled through him, but he tried to cover it. "I know."

She nodded, not responding to his arrogant remark. "But I'm still not telling you about Todd." As soon as the name slipped out, she realised her mistake in revealing it.

"Todd," he repeated. "You know, I thought it was odd that you randomly had a boy's room in your house when there was no indication of a boy anywhere in your life."

She looked at him curiously. "What?"

He gave her a chiding look. "The room where I was hiding behind the door? After the red-eye?"

Her mouth formed an o-shape. "Right." She smiled sadly. "What can I say, it's my sentimental father. My room's untouched, too, and I've been out of the house for, like, eight years."

"Yeah, but you aren't dead."

She glared at him. "How about you don't question people's ways of dealing with grief, alright?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "Tell me how he died," he insisted, after a moment.

"Why do you care?"

"Call it professional curiosity. Death is my business."

She grimaced. "That's sick."

"It's fact, Lisa," he corrected bluntly. "People have unpleasant jobs, unpleasant lives."

She let out a breathy chuckle, looking down at her trembling hands. "Yeah." The ever-present silence fell down on them again. Just when Jackson was about to speak, Lisa beat him to it.

"Drunk driving."

It took him a minute to clue in. "Ah. Him, or…?"

Lisa looked up at Jackson to give him an angry look. "No, not him. He wasn't an idiot. It was someone else. He lived. The someone else, I mean."

"I gathered, yeah."

She blew out a gust of air, sniffling loudly. "Yeah." She scrubbed at her teary eyes. "All I do is cry. I hate it." She let out a frustrated noise, pressing her fingers to her eyes even as tears leaked between them.

"You're beautiful when you cry."

She dropped her hands and looked at him surprised, searching his face for signs of ill-intent or mockery. There were none. It was the most open she had ever seen his expression.

"Shut up," she told him, not wanting to hear it. Not from him.

"Your eyes go greener," he continued as though he hadn't heard her, "your lips redder. More swollen." He glanced at the very lips he had just spoken of and she bit them to prevent their trembling.

"Yeah, my eyes also go redder and more swollen. So does my nose. I look like I just had an allergic reaction to something." She tried cutting through the heavy tension in the air by lightening the mood, but she could see that he was having none of it.

"Beautiful," he repeated. He had moved closer to her without her even noticing. All she could do was look into his shockingly blue eyes and try very hard not to drown.

"Shut up," she said again, her voice dropping to a whisper.

He reached out and in one swift motion grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her down to meet him. She resisted at first, squeaking in surprise and feebly struggling against him, but he brought his other hand up and anchored her face to his. If he had been devouring her lips in a vicious, violent kiss, she would have done everything in her power to break away. Instead, however, he peppered her mouth with soft, nibbling kisses, going from one corner to the other, up and down. She moved her hands away from his chest, where they'd been trying to push him away, and up onto his forearms. She ran them through the light hair there, enjoying the crisp sensation on her palms. As soon as he felt her begin to yield, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth open and sweeping his tongue in.

A moan built deep in her throat, too deep to come out, but still there. She responded tentatively at first, touching her tongue to his, allowing him to persuade her further into accepting it, accepting him. Her inhibitions fell slowly, as her arms weaved their way around his neck, pulling him closer. She didn't think. Not a single conscious thought passed through her mind. All she did, all she _could_ do, was let herself feel. His hands swept down her face, around her back, grabbing fistfuls of her silk top and dragging her on his lap. She tasted like cranberry juice, its tanginess just enough to slowly shred his carefully-managed control. Suddenly and without specific cause, he felt her stiffen like a corpse in his arms.

She had stopped feeling and started thinking.

_No, no_, his mind pleaded, desperate to maintain this drugging pleasure. _Fuck._

As soon as the words passed through his mind, she had pushed him away violently and then, as added insult, cracked him across the face with the flat of her hand.

His passion-clogged mind still reeling from the kiss, he was slow to respond to her assault. He just looked at her dumbly, taking in her dishevelled appearance, hooded eyes and full, dewy lips. She _looked_ like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. He had to admit, he was impressed with himself. Then he saw her reach up and fiercely scrub her lips, wiping his kiss away. His eyes flashed with anger.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "You purposely made me vulnerable and then you attacked. You're a pig."

"I prefer to think that I'm more of a predator than a pig," he responded, his light tone belying the turmoil within him.

She just shook her head in disgust. "You should leave," she said firmly, but quietly, refusing to look at him.

He looked at her for a long time, saying nothing, his eyes scanning her face. Still she looked away. He contemplated refusing, but decided it would be a more fitting punishment to let her stew and obsess about it. "All right," he conceded.

She was surprised by his acquiescence, but attempted to cover it. "Good." She brought a shaky hand up to her mussed hair in an attempt to fix it and turned back to the TV, studiously ignoring him.

He brushed past her around the front of the couch, and then paused at the back.

"Until next week." She heard the rustling of his clothing, then felt him lean down and press a kiss on the top of her head.

Her eyes closed for the briefest of moments and she swallowed hard. "Jack—" she began, sitting upright and turning around.

But he was gone.

She turned back and sat heavily back down, letting out a shaky sigh. After a minute, she realised that he had taken Todd's shirt and left his own. She swore under her breath. He was effectively trying to replace important parts of her life with himself and his presence. She thought about the groceries as well.

And beneath her anger, there was an honest to God fear that he was succeeding.


	4. Four

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One.

**Author's Notes**: Okay, I don't even have to say it because you guys know it, but I will anyway: I am SO sorry about the length of time it took to produce this chapter. You can see my profile for the details if you're interested, but needless to say, things have been pretty hectic. Hopefully there won't be as much space between chapters from now on, but I'm not in the habit of making empty promises, so I won't say anything for sure. All I hope for now is that you enjoy the (long-awaited) Chapter Four!

* * *

It was ten p.m. and Jack still hadn't shown up.

Lisa told herself it didn't matter and that she was certainly glad he had chosen to leave her alone that night. She was overly tired. It had been a trying week at work, a not-so restful weekend, and she just couldn't handle the stress of him. Now she could enjoy some peace and quiet and catch up on some reading and, more importantly, her sleep.

She inwardly scoffed at her attempts to convince herself of something that wasn't true.

Three Sundays had gone by since the kiss and, although he hadn't tried again, something had shifted between them. Suddenly, the silences weren't so awkward. His appearance didn't strike dread in her heart. She didn't scream anymore, or cry. Instead, they actually talked. Well, she talked, and he listened. She told him about the stresses of her job, about annoying customers, and funny things her co-workers did. Line-ups at the grocery store, the state of the world, good shows on TV, and the weather. Inane things. Safe things.

He, in turn, gave her nothing. She asked him questions about his life, both subtly and forthrightly. Wondered about his job, his friends, his parents or other family. He continuously said very little in response to her enquiries and so she had stopped asking. But she hadn't stopped wondering.

The previous week, she had questioned if it was true, what he had said about killing his parents. She knew he prided himself on never having told a lie, but she found herself praying that this had been the exception. He hadn't answered of course, merely given her a sardonic look, one eyebrow slightly cocked, his mouth pulling into a smirk that more resembled a grimace. She had her answer then, the only one he'd actually ever given. Even now, she could barely suppress the shudder that ran through her body.

There was something about him, something that both terrified and thrilled her. She had given up trying to make sense of it, because if she thought about it for too long, her mind would convince her of something that her heart wasn't ready to accept. The fact of the matter was that she had gotten used to him being around. She didn't want to think about who he was, or what he had done. All she wanted to know was who he was becoming to her.

Lisa was aware that she was being irresponsible, but she simply didn't care anymore. Every other day of the week, she was Lisa Reisert, hotel manager extraordinaire. Capable businesswoman, loving daughter, casual friend. Sundays, she was Lise. And she was with Jackson. And that's all she knew and cared to know on Sundays. Only on Sundays, but it was all she had, and so she would take it.

She knew she wasn't in love with the guy. She was too logical for that. But he provided companionship that she simply hadn't found in anyone else yet. As soon as she discovered it elsewhere, this nonsense would simply have to end. She tried not to think about the dates she'd turn down that week. She also tried not to think about the fact that Jackson would probably only stop showing up when he was ready to not show up anymore.

On Sundays, she chose to feel instead of think. And it had been going alright so far.

Except this Sunday, she had too much time to think, because Jackson had yet to show up. It was quarter to eleven now, and for someone who usually showed up around eight-thirty, nine (despite the planned meeting time for ten), this was uncharacteristically late. Worrying would be ridiculous, as she knew that very few people were as dangerous as Jack. So, if she were to worry about anyone it would be the people that he encountered, not the other way around. Despite this, she found herself pacing. Then, when she caught herself doing that and sat down, she began wringing her hands. When she sat on her hands to stop fidgeting, she found she was nibbling on her lip.

"Lisa, stop," she muttered firmly to herself. "You're being ridiculous." Sighing, she put her head in her hands and tried to organise her jumbled thoughts.

"Lise…"

The voice came from behind her. She looked up and allowed a private, relieved smile to spread across her face. Slowly turning around, she remarked, dryly, "And here I was looking forward to a quiet—" Her words got stuck and died in her throat.

He was head to toe covered in blood.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, wide-eyed as she watched him exert all his energy just to remain standing. She sped over to him just as he swayed dangerously one side, positioning herself under his left arm to support him. She felt a lump rise in her throat that she quickly smothered. Where the hell was she going to put him?

"Bathroom," she decided abruptly, saying it out loud so that he knew where she was leading him. She took him through her bedroom into the bathroom, grabbing a large, decorative pillow off her bed along the way. She tossed the pillow in the bathtub so that he wasn't leaning straight back onto the hard porcelain, and then helped him into it.

"What the hell happened?" she cried as soon as he was settled in.

"You should see the other guy," he croaked, avoiding her questions as always.

"Jack, Jesus Christ, just tell me where you're hurt," she said, her voice between a command and a plea. "Is anything broken? Have you been shot?"

"A lot of the blood isn't mine." He paused. "But a lot of it is, too." He didn't say anything more, just closed his eyes in a grimace of pain. Even his face was covered in blood. Lisa thought she was going to be sick.

"Where are you hurt, Jackson? Just tell me, tell me so I can help you." He looked at her warily and his distrust infuriated her. "Don't you know me by now? I'm trying to help you! For the love of all that's holy, _tell me where you're hurt_."

Her vehemence startled him, she could tell. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

She shook her head in disgust. "Fine. Then bleed to death in my tub." She turned to stalk out, and then paused before she reached the door. "But if you didn't want my help, Jack, why did you show up?"

"Couldn't miss out on the Sunday night meeting," he deadpanned, before letting out a low groan and folding into himself slightly. Then he did the last thing she expected Jackson Rippner to do.

He fainted.

For a heart-stopping, agonising second, Lisa was certain he had died. Perhaps it wasn't the most logical conclusion to have drawn, but for her to see him simply go limp like that, she hadn't known what else to think. She was at his side again in two strides and dropped to her knees beside the tub. It was then that she saw the laboured rising and falling of his chest beneath his bloody and destroyed shirt. A wave of relief swept over her body.

She only allowed herself that moment to gather her inner strength before she started with his shoes, carefully removing the Italian leather footwear, and then taking off his socks. After she placed them beside the tub, she began to carefully peel off his suit jacket, trying hard not to jostle him too much. It was difficult, as he was pretty much dead weight, but she summoned every ounce of patience in her body to just do it, and do it right. Slowly but surely, she took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Both articles of clothing had been torn and slashed beyond repair, and her fingers were already sticky with blood. She tried to ignore the smell of it and the sweat forming on her brow as she assessed his body for injuries. Various cuts riddled his chest and arms, a particularly deep and nasty one on his right bicep. He also had an assortment of discoloured bruises all over his body, in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There were several old scars evident as well, two in particular that she recognized quite well.

"What kind of life do you lead?" she breathed, feeling an inordinate amount of sadness for this young man with no future.

She brought her eyes back up to his face, also smeared with blood, most of which seeming to come from his nose. She gingerly felt the bridge of it to discern if it was broken or not. Having experienced this before in her years as a field hockey player, she was quickly able to determine that it had in fact shifted, but was not severely damaged. Taking a bracing breath, she slipped her other hand behind his head and sent up a small prayer of thanks that he was unconscious before carefully but swiftly cracking his nose back into place. A fresh torrent of blood poured out just as Jackson jerked awake. He let out the filthiest curse she had ever heard in her life.

"Don't move," she commanded in a voice that didn't even sound like her. It was so powerful, it resonated throughout the bathroom. He merely looked at her dazedly, as if to say 'Where would I go?'.

She reached across to the cupboard underneath her sink, and took a handful of clean washcloths out from the basket of them she kept there. She ran them under warm water from the sink and brought it back to him, wiping the blood off his face with a gentleness she didn't even know she possessed. She ran it over his forehead like a caress, bringing it down over his cheekbones and under his chin.

"Tilt your head back," she murmured. He silently complied, and she wiped the fresh blood away from his mouth and under his nose, which had thankfully stopped bleeding as profusely. She gentled her touch as she wiped on either side of his nose and under his eyes, as though she could erase the dark circles with her touch. He watched her the whole time with a heavy-lidded gaze and an expression she couldn't discern. They were both silent. Soon, she was out of washcloths and there was still too much blood on his body.

"Can you stand?" she asked.

He looked away. "My knee."

"What happened to it?"

He shrugged. "They busted it, with some sort of club, or bat. I don't know, I didn't see."

She let out a shuddering breath, not even bothering to ask who "they" were. "Is it broken?"

He shrugged again.

Fed up, she leaned forward and began unbuckling his belt. "Not a word," she told him, before he could even open his mouth. She saw his head loll back in a gesture of defeat and fatigue. Summarily, she stripped off his pants to look at his knee, ignoring the puncture-wound scar on his thigh. It was definitely swollen and discoloured. Cocking her head to examine it further, she gently prodded it with her hands, ignoring his sharp intake of breath.

"Well," she said finally. "I don't know that it's broken, but we'll have to ice it and wrap it, and then hope for the best." She ran her eyes over his tired, beaten face, carefully avoiding looking at his semi-naked body. "Jack, you're going to have to stand up, I need to wash the rest of this blood off of you and clean your cuts."

"How are you going to do that?" he rasped, tilting his head up to look at her.

She sighed. "You're going to take a shower."

He smirked and she saw a hint of the old Jackson, for just an instance.

"Oh, stop," she said, even though he hadn't spoken. "I'm doing this for you."

"Why?" he wondered simply, asking the one question that she hadn't wanted to even think about, let alone answer.

She forced herself to be flippant. "Because I only like seeing you hurt when I'm inflicting the pain. Now stand up," she ordered, ignoring the soft smile that had crossed over his face. When he still didn't move, she decided to take action. "Here." She took off her socks, rolled up her track pants, and shrugged out of her zip-up sweater. He merely watched the action unfold, until she stepped in behind him into the tub and crouched down behind him, trying to get her arms underneath his.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to get you to stand up! A little help?"

He shrugged out of her grasp and moved forward a bit, bracing his arms on either end of the tub. He gritted his teeth as every bone and muscle in his body screamed in protest while he stood, trying not to put pressure on his knee. Finally, he managed to stand all the way up, before promptly swaying forward. Lisa caught him just by the convenience of standing right there. He swore at himself, his body, and her for being there and witnessing it.

"What do you do when this happens and there's no one there to take care of you?" she wondered aloud, her arms still around him, supporting him. He was silent, but he didn't need to respond. She already knew the answer.

Refusing to look him in the eye, she debated what to do next. She knew that her clothes were going to get wet—that was fine, she had plenty to change into. He, on the other hand, had nothing. She glanced down at him, only clad in his boxer-briefs. If he got them wet, she could put them in the dryer, but by the time they actually became dry… the thought of a completely naked Jackson Rippner in her apartment did not sit too well with her. So, she forced herself to be brisk and matter-of-fact. "You gotta take off your underwear."

He pulled away and looked down at her like she had lost her mind.

"It's either be naked now in the shower, or be naked in my cold apartment for much longer."

Jackson thought back to the day that she spilled juice all over him and how he'd had to stand shirtless in her apartment for that brief period of time. Then he considered having to be completely naked in that atmosphere. "I can't bend my knee," he said finally.

She bit her lip, and he knew she was wrestling very strongly with herself. "Fine," she said, finally, surprising him. Turning her head, she crouched down and undressed him in one swift motion, dropping the item of clothing on the other side of the tub and pulling the curtain across. He had to admit, he was impressed by the fluid motion. Luckily he wasn't the type to be concerned with nudity, particularly his own. Still, she refused to look anywhere as she leaned forward to turn on the tap and adjust the temperature. Once it was sufficiently heated, she yanked the shower knob and a cascade of water came down on them, causing them both to let out a surprised shout. Jackson's back was to the showerhead and his body took most of it, but Lisa's tank top and pants were quickly getting wetter. She ignored it though, in favour of taking care of Jackson and his injuries. He let out a hiss of pain as the hot water pelted his open cuts.

"Can you do this yourself?" Lisa asked, unsure if she should be there at all.

His response was to sway into her more, clearly unable to hold himself up for too long.

"Okay," she said to herself, making a decision then and there to stop pussy-footing and help him as best as she could. "Turn around and face the water. I've got you from behind, but we need to clean off your front side. That's where most of the injuries are as far as I can tell." Surprisingly, he obeyed. She noticed that he was slowly falling more and more into a pain and blood loss-induced stupor, and she tried her best to keep him conscious and upright as she slowly cleaned out all his cuts and other injuries. She turned him to face her again. By now, he was fully leaning onto the hard, wall-tiles, his eyes only slits but still watching her. As she ran the soap over his arms and chest, she looked up and noticed his nose had slowly begun to bleed again. She reached up and cupped his cheek, gently running her thumb and then her fingers under his nose to clean it up, letting the running water take care of the rest.

Jackson watched Lisa through hazy eyes, watched her as she carefully cleaned his injuries, watched as she gently ran her hands over his body, wiping away his blood and his pain. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that someone had actually taken care of him. The first time he had had real, human contact. Not in the sexual sense, of course, but in the way where it actually meant something. There was nothing sexual about what she was doing now, despite the fact that he was naked, and her clothes were plastered to her body. He hardly noticed either of those things. It was just one human being taking care of another. He was glad he didn't have the strength to move, because almost every part of him was telling him to get the hell out of there. What she was doing to him scared him, actually scared Jackson Rippner. Because the smallest part of him, a part that he thought was long dead, liked it. Liked it very much. And was very tempted to grab her and yank her to him and hold her there forever. He clenched his jaw against the pain in his body and in his heart. Oblivious, she continued to bathe him.

"Enough," he muttered through clenched teeth. "That's enough."

She looked up in surprise, then down at his body. A blush rose on her cheeks as she looked too far down, and then forced her eyes back to his chest, scanning his injuries to see if the bleeding had stopped and if they were sufficiently clean. The deep cut on his arm still bled, but that was it as far as she could discern.

"Okay," she agreed, finally. She leaned forward and turned off the water, then stepped out of the shower, leaving a puddle on the floor at her feet. "Sit," she commanded, helping him down to the side of the tub, making sure his injured knee didn't move too much. Then, she ran into her hallway and grabbed two large, fluffy white towels from the linen closet, coming back just as quickly. He was shuddering violently, so she immediately came up behind him with the open towel and wrapped it around him, holding it there so that her body was pressing into his back. She could still feel him shaking and tried to absorb the chills into her own body by holding him even tighter. They stayed like that for a moment, silently, both trembling with the force of his shivers. She pulled away from him after a beat, and wrapped the other towel around him as well.

"Don't move. I'll be right back." He merely leaned heavily against the wall, and she left the bathroom, quickly stripping off all her wet clothes as soon as she crossed into her bedroom. She went to grab another towel from the linen closet, a beach towel this time, and quickly dried herself off before dressing in a heavy sweater and flannel pyjama bottoms. She was sure she looked horrendous, but couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. She went back to Jackson, still leaning against the wall, and helped him out of the tub and into her bedroom. He limped heavily, trying hard not to put too much pressure on his knee, and allowed her to direct him to her bed. When she began to towel-dry him off, he moved away.

"I can do it myself," he muttered, attempting to keep a hold on the remaining shreds of his dignity.

She rolled her eyes. "Does it honestly matter at this point?" One look into his eyes told her that it did. "Fine," she conceded after a beat. "I'm going to go put on a pot of tea and get bandages for some of those cuts. You probably need stitches but, let me guess, you're not exactly a hospital person, are you?" He didn't answer her. "Of course you're not. Lord knows you weren't there long last time." She shook her head. "I'll be back."

"I hate tea," was all he said as she left the room.

She came back in record time with two rolls of gauze bandage strips and some medical tape. He raised an eyebrow, impressed at her resourcefulness. She noticed his assessing gaze and merely shrugged. "It's always good to be prepared."

He would have laughed in different circumstances, because it was such a "Lisa" thing to say. The resourceful lady in question approached him on the bed and carefully cleaned the blood off his arm with the white towel, then slowly began to wrap the bandages around his cut. She muttered to herself the entire time about how he needed stitches and this was a poor substitute for proper medical care and mostly how he was insane. She finished his arm and secured it with the tape, then went to work tearing and placing strips on the more critical areas on his chest and side. Finally, she gingerly wrapped his busted knee to try and control the swelling slightly. The tea kettle had been whistling from about halfway through, but she was so absorbed in her work she hadn't noticed, and Jackson was so absorbed in watching her work he hadn't told her.

"There, I think that's—" She'd finally heard the whistling. "Shit, shit, shit!" She sped out of the room, and he heard a louder, "_Dammit_!" from within the kitchen. Followed by several yelps of pain and a crashing noise. She stayed in the kitchen for another few minutes, making a new pot he assumed, before coming back. Her forefinger was in her mouth and she had a disgruntled look on her face. She carried a Ziploc baggie of ice in the other hand.

"Tea?" he questioned sweetly.

"I burned myself," she muttered in response. "Here, put this on your knee." She went over to him and carefully positioned the ice bag over his swollen leg, stretched out on the bed. He sucked in a breath at the coldness. She looked at him assessingly.

"You need clothes."

He looked down at his towel-clad form, and had to agree.

She debated what to do. "I honestly have nothing for you besides Todd's t-shirt that you wore last time and whatever clothes you had. You could also try wearing a pair of my track pants, some of them are pretty baggy." She sighed. "Let me grab your clothes and see what's salvageable."

In the end, it was pretty much just his underwear and socks, which he accepted with as much dignity as possible. His pants weren't too destroyed, but they were stiff and coated in blood. Disgusted, Lisa took the rest of his clothes, her ruined pillow, and all the bloody towels and washcloths, and threw them in the washing machine. The tea whistled once more, and this time she was ready for it. She was back in the room in no time, two steaming mugs in her hand.

"And I don't care if you hate tea," was her way of greeting, "because it's good for you, and will warm you up." She placed both mugs on the bedside table. "I'll get you Todd's shirt, you get under the covers."

"This is ridiculous," he spoke, finally. "I'm not a child."

She turned to him with fire in her eyes. "_Who_ just took you in, destroyed her bathroom, bathed you, tended your wounds, permanently stained all her towels, leant you whatever she could, and made you a goddamn cup of tea? Who? Because it wasn't your precious company or your precious self, I'll tell you that's for damn sure."

Properly chastened, he looked away. "Who asked you to?" he couldn't help but mutter.

She shook her head in disbelief. "You did when you showed up at my door, Jack, and you know it. So stop playing tough guy and get under the damn covers." She dug through her dresser for her brother's shirt, which he'd surprisingly returned freshly washed the week after he borrowed it, and a pair of big track pants and threw them at him when she produced them. "I'll bring you another blanket." And she stalked out of the room.

He sighed and put on her brother's shirt and her track pants, wincing as he maneuvered his knee into the baggy pants. They fit embarrassingly well enough, although they were a bit short. Adjusting the pillow so that his head could rest comfortably against the headboard, he let himself think about her obvious anger towards him. _Stupid, Jack. Stupid_. He knew he would never be able to properly make sense of his gratitude towards her, let alone voice it. He also knew she deserved more, much more, than that.

She returned with an extra blanket in each hand, and spread one over the bed. "Just sleep here tonight, Jackson, okay? I'll feel much better if you just…stay here, for tonight." She didn't look at him as she spoke, and he berated himself even more for not being able to say the things he knew he should. Things that he _wanted_ to say, but which years and years of stifling had made impossible to express.

Finally she did look up, taking in the sight of him underneath the covers of her bed, wearing her brother's shirt. She sighed. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything. Goodnight," she added as an afterthought, making her way out.

"Lisa, wait," he said. _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you_. She turned to look him. _Thank you. Thank you_. "Stay."

"I don't think so, Jack…"

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you_. "Please." _Thank you_.

She gnawed her lip indecisively. Finally, the irrational side of whatever internal battle she was waging won, and she crossed over to the bed and got under the covers with him. He shifted slightly to reach out to her with his left arm and she hesitated only a moment before scooting beside him and resting her head on his uninjured arm and shoulder.

"Are you comfortable?" he murmured after a moment of shifting and adjustments. _Thank you. Thank you_.

"Yes." Her voice was muffled, as it was buried in his shirt. Her feathery hair tickled his nose.

_Thank you. _"Lisa?" _Thank you._

"Yeah?"

_Thank you. _He tightened his hold on her and swallowed convulsively, before heavily pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Goodnight." _Thank you_.

He felt her tense slightly, then relax completely. She put her slender arm over his stomach, being careful to avoid his cuts, knowing where they were, and snuggled closer to him still.

"You're welcome, Jack."


	5. Five

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One.

**Author's Note**: This one came out in slightly less time than the last chapter, but I'm still sorry for the wait. Thank you all for your patience and for your wonderful reviews, especially those of you who sign anonymously because I'm not able to personally respond! I hope you enjoy Chapter Five, as always. Fingers crossed for a speedy Chapter Six! ;)

* * *

Lisa awoke the next morning with a start. She was wet. That much was apparent by the water pooling at her side. She also had blood on her face. This discovery came about by the smearing of blood all over her pillow and the top of her bed sheet. And she was not alone. She knew this because 185 pounds of bleeding male was snoring beside her. The events of the previous night stumbled to the forefront of her mind, along with an all-encompassing headache.

Stifling a groan, she shifted slightly so that she was facing Jackson. His nose had started bleeding again in the night, evident by the blood that once more covered his face and now her bed and her self as well. She felt around the puddle at her waist until her hand clutched the empty Ziploc bag.

_Great_, she thought, cursing her stupidity. Somehow, in her haste to heal a murderer, she forgot that ice had a tendency to melt. After chucking the sodden plastic over the edge of the bed, she settled more deeply into the covers, unwilling to get up despite the uncomfortable nature of her bed. Instead, she regarded the murderer in question, curious to see how he looked in sleep. Expecting the vulnerable, softened expression that most would have while sleeping, she was a bit surprised to see tension infused in every feature, from his tightly clenched jaw to his drawn eyebrows. No peace for Jackson Rippner, even in slumber. The same feelings of pity that she'd had when she'd seen his scars welled up in her again. She unconsciously lifted her hand to sweep some falling hair off his bruised face.

Before her hand had even touched him though, he inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. Startled, she gasped slightly as his cold, blue gaze made direct contact with hers. They stared at each other for a moment before he groaned, low but loud, deep in his throat. He produced a hand out from somewhere under the covers and gingerly touched his face where deep, dark circles stood out under his eyes, then moved it over the bridge of his nose. He winced lightly at the contact and groaned again.

"I feel like I got hit by a plane," he rasped, shutting his lids once more.

She allowed herself a half-smile at his choice of words. "You look it."

He opened one eye half-mast, regarding her dryly for a beat before closing it again without a word.

She continued to watch him, trying to decipher the feelings that rumbled in her breast. There was the pity there, again, but her heart also no longer clenched in anxiety and fear at the sight of him. For once, she refused to shy away from this and actually think about it for a moment. She knew that there had been a part of her, a sick, twisted part deep down, that had made her peace with Jackson as he lay bleeding in her father's front hallway. Their eyes had met and an understanding had passed between them, attacker to attackee with neither one knowing which was which. While the reappearance of this man had caused a great many disturbances in her life, it hadn't been such an obstacle to accept him, in a way. To take him for who he was and to expand her mind into allowing him to become a part of her life. She wasn't as rigid and overbearing as people believed. She had been soft once, carefree. Most of all, she was desperate for something. Desperate to feel again, to break out of the monotony that she had allowed herself to fall into; the safeness in familiarity that had become all-too safe and all-too familiar. And, as was almost every woman's folly, she sought to break free from this ennui with the archetypal bad boy.

Although, her "bad boy" of choice was a ruthless, terrorist-assassin who had threatened her very life and the life of her family and friends in a plane thousands of feet in the air.

But then again, Lisa Reisert had never been known to do things halfway.

As deranged as it was, Jackson had been more helpful in pulling her out of her post-traumatic shell in the time she had known him than thousands of dollars in therapy had been over two years.

And, with dawning horror and startling clarity, she realised something that terrified her to her very core, moreso than anything the man beside her could ever personally inflict. Something she knew was going to happen, something inevitable, but still something she had wanted to avoid at all costs.

She'd fallen for him.

She cared for Jackson Rippner. Was that even his real name? She had to stifle a hysterical laugh. _This_ was exactly why she had refused before to think about what was happening between the two of them—she knew that she was going to draw insane conclusions, knew that these thoughts had been there, always lurking below the surface, waiting for the moment when they'd be realised. Now it had happened and there was no taking them back, there was only dealing with them. There was only allowing floods of memories and emotions from the past weeks to pour to the forefront. Of men she'd refused, Sunday nights she'd stared anxiously at the clock, questions she'd avoided from friends and family, the awkward silences with him, or worse, the meaningful ones. All the things they'd said, and even more what they didn't say. The kiss. The first one where he thought she'd been sleeping, the second where she had been wide awake. The times she'd wanted to kiss him. The times she'd known he wanted to do more to her. And the times she'd wanted it, too.

Twin tears streaked down her cheeks. Strangely, it felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. This wasn't healthy, normal, or sane, but what was? Who was to say? If she was being completely honest with herself, she'd never been normal or sane. There was a certain level of insanity that came from being a field hockey player, anyway. And Lord knew Jackson didn't fit on any clean bills. Maybe, just maybe, they suited.

"What, exactly, were you thinking?"

His raspy voice broke her out of her reverie. She never really noticed before that moment just how rough his voice actually was. Certainly a change from the smooth tone that had tracked chills down her spine so many months ago. She had done that to him, to his voice.

It made her proud, in a way, to have left that kind of mark.

"Just now? That you got blood all over my sheets," is what she told him.

"I'll buy you new ones. And that's not what I meant. What were you thinking, taking care of me?" His eyes were open again now, and they flashed with something she couldn't discern.

She narrowed her own eyes at him. "What were you thinking, showing up at my door?"

"Lisa, don't you know it's impolite to answer a question with a question?" There was a sharpness to his tone that hadn't been there in a while. Her hackles were immediately raised.

"Don't you know it's impolite to bleed on people's sheets?" was her snarky reply.

"Forget the fucking sheets for a minute, Lise." He sat up in the bed without even a wince. "I asked you last night and you skirted the question. Why? Why did you help me?"

"You're one to talk about skirting questions," she retorted hotly, sitting up as well and swinging her feet off the bed. She walked to the foot of it and angrily began to strip off the soiled covers. Jackson was shirtless, apparently having taken off her brother's top in the night as it lay strewn on the floor, and almost all of his bandages had bled through. "Why are you even asking? Why do you even have to ask?" She snatched up her brother's shirt and ripped both blood-stained pillows off the bed, before stalking out to the laundry room.

Jackson was furious with her, absolutely livid, and trying to contain himself. He conveniently overlooked the fact that he had felt indebted to her just hours ago, trying to find ways to properly express his gratitude and always coming up short. Instead, the way she had taken care of him last night, _coddled_ him, now infuriated him. Nobody saw him like that, least of all the slip of a girl who had already humiliated him once. He'd let his guard down, allowed himself to revel in the forgotten feelings of nurturing and care that he'd had too little of in his life, and exposed his weakness. He was disgusted with himself. He'd been acting like a child and she'd taken advantage of it. She probably loved seeing him so vulnerable, like a doll she could dress and have tea parties with. He looked caustically at the two full, untouched mugs she had left on her bedside table. His fingers itched to smash them into her cream-coloured walls.

Just then, she swept back into the room, avoiding eye contact as she made her way back to the bed. "You didn't even drink your tea and I took the time to make it for you. I even burned myself—" As she spoke, she picked up the tea mugs in question and turned to go back out of the room.

He couldn't stand listening to her and desperately needed to take control of the situation again, to be the one who was in charge, the one calling the shots. He swiftly stood up as she was talking. Ignoring the screaming protests of his body and being careful not to apply too much pressure to his damaged knee, he grabbed her forcefully by the arms, allowing his rage to seep through his fingertips and into her tender skin. He pulled her flush against his body and she gasped out loud, the tea slipping from her grasp. Both cups fell with a dull thud onto the floor, the tepid liquid staining her carpet. She gasped again as her eyes beheld the mess she had just created, this time with outrage instead of surprise.

"Are you going to ruin _everything_ in my house?" she fumed, ignoring the way he held her and the look in his eyes.

Her reaction was the final straw. She didn't even have the decency to be nervous around him anymore. He thought to smack her, once, hard, right across the cheekbone. He knew that feeling, of course. An explosion of pain, like your face had just erupted. Stars beneath your eyelids for hours and a throbbing that feels like it lasts for days. He wouldn't do it hard enough to break anything, just to leave an impression. To remind her who, exactly, she was dealing with, once and for all. He swiftly raised his hand, his other still holding her tightly to him, and was just about to bring it down when something stayed him.

Maybe it was the way she didn't make a sound, just tensed her entire body in horrified anticipation. Maybe the way she was already clenching her fist to give him a present in return. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes. Larger than usual, they registered surprise, dismay and a hint of betrayal. The betrayal is what did it, he was sure. Because, damn him to hell, he didn't want her to look at him that way anymore. She had done so once before, and even that time hadn't left such a foul taste in his mouth as this did. So for the first time in a very long time, eons it seemed, Jackson disobeyed every impulse that his "managerial" position had ever afforded him and slowly dropped his hand.

She was slow to comprehend that she wasn't going to be struck. She blinked once, twice, and opened her mouth to say something.

But just because Jackson had changed his mind on hitting her didn't mean he was going to relinquish control of the situation. Just as she went to speak, he pulled her roughly up against him once more and assaulted her in a different way, bruisingly covering her lips with his own. He was largely unsatisfied with gentle kisses. Those were the ones with intent to seduce, to numb the mind and make a person forget themselves. This was the kind of kiss that reminded the person of exactly who they were, and who they were with: Jackson fucking Rippner. And this was how Jackson Rippner kissed.

He expected her to shove him away and get him right in the injured knee, so even as he was kissing her he prepared for the attack. She surprised him by hesitating for only the briefest of seconds, before jerking her arms out of his violent hold and tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. And in one swift movement, God damn her, Lisa had gained the upper hand once more.

Their kiss wasn't romantic or sweet, or anything nice at all. It was rough, violent, and desperate, like a drowning person being swept under crashing waves. She moved closer to him still and he stumbled against the bed before sitting down heavily on it. His knee groaned in pain, but he ignored it because she was on his lap straddling him, and she was biting and sucking his neck, right below his ear lobe. He held her firmly to him by securely grabbing her hips and dragging her further up his lap.

"Jack," she breathed right over his lips and they tingled. They actually tingled. He captured her mouth again roughly, but she had something to say so she pulled away. "Jack," she repeated, still right over his mouth. When had she started calling him Jack like it was her name for him? Like she had the right? When had it stopped being an insult and become personal? Her lips hovering over his mouth drove him to distraction. He fucking hated her when she teased. She was such a goddamn tease she could make a living out of it. She was even a tease before she knew him, before they even spoke, when he used to watch her and want her and know that he would never have her.

"What?" His voice sounded rusty, like he hadn't used it in centuries.

She kissed him again, three more times, each time pulling away before he could respond properly. He dug his fingers more deeply into her. Then she pressed her lips to his ear, and finally said her piece: "Get the fuck out of my bed. I need to change the sheets."

He froze for a beat. That was what she wanted to tell him? Disgusted with the both of them, he shoved her off of him roughly and she tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her bottom a couple feet away. She said nothing, not even a squeak of indignation, just sat there looking at him through the veils of her hair, her eyes flashing, her face raw and scraped from his morning stubble.

"You're a stupid bitch," he told her pleasantly, regaining some of his composure.

She said nothing until after she'd stood up and collected the empty mugs from the carpet. Calmly, she swung her hair out of her eyes and regarded him steadily. "And you love it." Before he could respond, she'd left the room. He fell back onto the bed and breathed out a quiet laugh. There was no way he could possibly unite the two warring emotions that he had for her at the forefront of his mind, so he merely allowed them both to continue their fight.

Sitting up with a grunt, he inspected his various and sundry chest injuries. The smaller cuts had closed for the most part, being merely scrapes, really. They stung like hell, but he was a big boy, he could take it. The larger ones, though, particularly the nasty one on his arm, were visible through the self-made dressings. They were actually applied fairly decently. Amateurish, but decent. None had come unstuck throughout the night or been wound too tightly or too loosely. And his nose… He cautiously probed the swollen flesh. It still hurt, but it seemed as though the blood had finally clotted. She'd done a damn good job getting it back in place. For as annoying and self-righteous as she was, she could certainly take care of business. He was impressed.

Taking his gaze from his body, he surveyed the damaged room. His inner desire for order and cleanliness was made askew by what he saw. He had to move his foot gingerly to the side to avoid stepping in the puddle of tea. Lisa returned then, and began to strip the bed while he still sat on it.

"Up," she ordered, not looking at him. "The stains have sat there long enough, I don't want to make them any worse." Finally she drew her attention to him, and gave him an assessing look. "Maybe you should take a shower."

"I already had one," he reminded her, satisfied with the colour that rose in her cheeks.

"You need another," she told him bluntly, ripping the sheets out from under him and gathering them up in her arms. "You look disgusting. I'll have fresh clothes ready for you when you come out. You might want to take care of your little cuts and bruises, too." She was purposely making his injuries seem paltry and he knew it. Granted, they were hardly life-threatening, but he didn't want her to think he was crying over a paper cut, either. Again though, she was gone before he could say anything.

_Chicken_, he silently taunted, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

He had to admit, he was sorely tempted by the prospect of a shower. Although he was famished, he was well-rested at least, and felt much better that morning than he had last night. He also knew he should leave. But, he couldn't exactly go anywhere looking the way he did, anyway. Common sense won over his better judgement. He stripped off the track pants.

Lisa heard the shower water running and let out the breath she'd be holding all morning. Dumping the sheets in the washing machine, she put in extra detergent for good measure and ignored the fact that whites were mixed in with darks and her life was a mess. Sighing heavily, she trudged back to the kitchen and put soap and water on a washcloth before going to scrub tea off her bedroom carpet. She refused to think about _anything_, as she'd learned her lesson from the last time she'd let her mind wander. Of course now there was a third kiss to contend with that had pretty much blown the other two out of the water. She shook her head to clear it. As she scrubbed, she caught sight of her bloody hand, which led to her wet and bloody clothes, which she supposed were complemented by her haggard and bloody face. She quickly finished scrubbing the floor—she'd been meaning to get hardwood in the bedroom, anyway—and got up to change before Jackson finished his shower. She had things to take care, after all.

Jackson turned off the hot water, reluctant to step out. His knee throbbed and his cuts were on fire, but it felt good. Pain had always made him feel alive and this was no different. He'd heard Lisa shuffling in and out, and now he opened the shower curtain to see what she'd been busying herself with. There greeting him was a fresh body towel, courtesy of the Lux Atlantic, and clothes that quite clearly didn't belong to her. She'd also left the bandages and tape in there, as well as a tensor bandage for his knee. There was a tightness in his throat and chest that gave him pause. He kept doing everything in his power to push her away, and still she persevered.

_What a little idiot_, he thought, but his typical malice was notably absent. He dried himself off quickly with the towel and expertly tended to his injuries. Years and years of practice had allowed him to perfect the art of taking care of himself. It was things like that which made him even more convinced of the fact that he truly didn't need anyone else in his life. Only recently, however, had he been questioning what he wanted. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he inspected the clothes she'd left out for him. A soft dress shirt and comfortable slacks, as well as the necessary underclothes. Even socks. Where had she gotten these things? There was no way she'd left the apartment complex, he would've heard her. Plus, these clothes weren't new. Perplexed, he dressed anyway, revelling in the feel of nice clothing that actually fit.

Clothed, bandaged, and feeling better than he had in years, Jackson sauntered into the kitchen. Lisa was sitting on a stool by the counter island in her kitchen. She had cleaned up as well, dressed smartly in her work clothes which consisted of a fitted blouse with a ridiculously frilly, high-necked collar and a knee-length black skirt. She was drinking a cup of coffee and reading yesterday's newspaper. Two plates of scrambled eggs and toast were prepared, one in front of her and half-eaten, another directly across. A steaming mug sat beside his plate as well.

He wanted to kill her, then himself, because frankly, he didn't know what else to do. When she was screaming, crying, and beating him—that, he could deal with. This, however, unnerved him to no end. He'd much rather she killed him with knives than kindness. Knives he could handle.

"It's getting cold," she remarked casually, turning a page of the newspaper and taking a sip of her coffee.

He joined her without a word. His stomach grumbled embarrassingly loud at the promise of fulfilment as soon as he smelled the eggs. She looked up and raised an eyebrow, a smirk on her lips, but said nothing.

He sneered in her general direction, then sat down and dug in without pretence. They ate together in silence for a while.

"Whose clothes am I wearing?" he wondered once he was halfway done, speaking around a bite of toast.

"My neighbours'," she responded, turning another page of the paper.

"Interesting story?"

"The very best." In actuality, David had hardly asked any questions. He'd seen Jackson once before, slipping into Lisa's apartment, and had assumed he was her boyfriend since he apparently had a key. Lisa had choked on her scoff. He merely gave her a sly look and lamented the fact that Jackson was taken, before graciously handing over the clothes with a wink. She could only hazard to guess what he assumed had happened to Jackson's other clothes.

There was more silence between the two of them as Jackson finished his plate. He then downed his coffee, black. Still silence. He was horrified to find himself fidgeting, tapping his fingers impatiently on the countertop, and quickly stopped. Lisa continued to leisurely sip her coffee, scanning the newspaper still. Frustrated, he stood suddenly.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

She barely spared him a glance. "Goodbye."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you angry about?"

This time she actually looked up, her eyes registering slight surprise. "I'm not angry."

"Then why are you acting this way?"

"What way?" There was genuine confusion in her tone.

Jackson realised that he was sounding like a girl, so he stubbornly kept silent on the matter. "I'll return these," he said, motioning to his clothing.

She turned back to the paper. "Whatever you say."

His mood got fouler by degrees. "You don't believe me?"

"Of course I do. You never lie—you're Jackson Rippner. If that is your real name."

He was certain his teeth were going to shatter from being clenched so hard. "You just said I never lie, now you're questioning my name?"

She merely gave him a sweet smile and a shrug. Then took a bite of eggs.

He'd worked with people too long to not know what she was doing. She was purposely baiting him, because she was angry about the shit he put her through. The little passive-aggressive martyr. He had to leave, right then, before she made him even more ill at ease. He was limping for the door, when she spoke again.

"You talk in your sleep, you know."

He froze. Literally froze, in that he could feel ice coursing through his veins and was certain his heart stopped beating. He tried very, very hard to not expose this reaction. "Oh?" His voice was even raspier than usual due to the tightening of his throat.

"Mm-hmm."

Oh, he was going to murder her. He stalked back over to her as heavily as his injured leg would allow and spun her around on the stool. She gasped, the first actual emotion she'd displayed in the last half hour or so. Still not satisfied with that response, he fulfilled another urge he'd had all morning by tearing her half-full coffee cup out of her hand and throwing it against the wall in one fluid motion. It shattered with a magnificent crash, raining porcelain and coffee all down the wall. All she could do was stare at it, stunned.

He berated himself for revealing just how much the sleep-talking issue had affected him, but he had to admit, he enjoyed her reaction. Until she smacked him, right on the slash on his arm. He let out a shout of pain before he could help himself. Then she shoved him back, hard.

"You're deranged, you know that?" she raged, going to grab a broom from the closet. "Ungrateful pig. Why don't you inconvenience me a little bit more? I swear to God." She shoved past him and went to clean up the mess. "You stain my carpet, stain my walls, my pillows, my bath, and my bed because you can't control your little psycho violent urges and you do God knows what and get stabbed at by God knows who. You know—" She turned on him to berate him even further, fire in her eyes, but only silence and an empty room greeted her.

He was gone.

A week went by, including the Sunday. A Monday and a Tuesday passed, too, with no sign of him. Wednesday and Thursday, she'd stopped waiting in anticipation. Friday she tried not to think about it at all. On Friday night, she lay in bed, reading. It was a full moon, and she purposely kept the curtain open wide in her bedroom so that the light could shine in and illuminate the page. The TV played quietly in the background, affording her more light to read with. She was immersed in the story, when she suddenly heard a rattling at her front door. There was a moment where panic welled up in her chest, before she heard the door open smoothly and then shut with an almost inaudible click and knew who it was. She marvelled at the number of times he'd come in without her even detecting him, from places she'd forgotten about or didn't even know existed. He certainly was good at what he did.

Speaking of the devil, a lone figure emerged in the doorway and leaned casually against the wall. She was about to ask him about his knee, when he spoke.

"What do I say?"

Surprise kept her silent as she took off her reading glasses and regarded him for a moment. "I'm sorry, what?"

"In my sleep. What do I say?"

Immediately she understood. "Nothing," she responded, honestly. "Nonsensical things that I could barely understand. You spoke Russian. And maybe Greek, or Italian, or something like that. You named people I didn't know and dates that meant nothing."

"I speak twenty-seven languages," he admitted, the first fact he'd freely and willingly given of himself other than his name.

"That's unbelievable," she said in genuine awe.

Something akin to pride rose in his breast at her tone. "And I've never spoken in my sleep before."

"How can you be—?"

"Ever." He sauntered over to her bed, his movements sleek and predatory. A chill went through her that raised gooseflesh all over her body. He paused at her side. "What do you do to me?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She said nothing, merely watched him.

"I want you," he said simply, and she wasn't surprised.

"I know."

"From before you even knew me, I've wanted you."

"I know."

He nodded, accepting. "You have to say it back, Lise. The only way I'll touch you ever again is if you tell me to."

She knew his intent. He wanted to make her admit it, now. Not in the throes of passion, but when she was cool and clearheaded, so that it would be one hundred percent her decision. So that she would _choose_ him and not be allowed to play the victim, like she'd been coerced in any way. The unbelievably clever, heartless bastard.

Still, she said nothing. Just closed the book and put it and her glasses on the bedside table. She contemplated him, her hands tightly clenched. Then she cleared her throat.

"It'll be the first time since—"

"I know."

She gave him a wry smile that lifted only the corner of her mouth and didn't reach her eyes. "And you're up for it?"

He smiled slyly in return. "Oh, I'm up."

She regarded him seriously. "Jack…" she began.

Jackson sat down on the bed and cupped her face with his hand, running his fingers through the curls. "Yeah, Lise?"

She forced her own hands to unclench and took a deep, shaky breath. She could hear her pulse thundering in her ears. Leaning into his hand ever-so-slightly, she met his steady gaze, those ever-present blue eyes striking her in the heart. "I want this," she whispered finally, her voice anything but even. She closed her hand over his and closed her eyes. He was silent, waiting for her to finish speaking. Lisa opened her eyes and met his once more. Her voice was much steadier when she spoke again. "I want you."

Something indiscernible flashed in his eyes. She hated how she couldn't discern anything that flashed in his eyes.

And he pulled her to him.


	6. Six

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One. 

**Author's Note**: Like Jackson, I never forget an anniversary. ;) It's two months to the day of my last update, and I realise it's been much too long, and I realise I suck. But all I can say is that I truly hope you enjoy, and all I can ask is that it was worth the wait. 

**Warning**: Fairly explicit sexual content in this chapter. If that offends you, you'll just have to be doubly patient until I can get Chapter 7 out. For those of you who won't be offended... well, you can just doubly enjoy. ;)

* * *

At first when he kissed her, she couldn't respond. She was frozen with the prospect of what lay ahead of her. She knew there was no future with this man and yet she was willingly giving herself to him, body and soul. Willingly giving herself to any man since her assault had seemed impossible. Why him? Why now?

"Jack," she whispered urgently. He paused his gentle assault for a moment, letting out a small, laboured sigh, and waited for her to speak.

A lump climbed into her throat and she couldn't speak, so she merely looked at him pleadingly, not knowing what she was asking for, but asking nonetheless.

He sighed again, heavier this time. "I can't say the things you want to hear. Don't you understand? I'm not…" He looked away, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "I'm not built that way."

She continued to not speak, continued to look at him, softly pushing his hair back from his face in rhythmic strokes. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch imperceptibly.

"Lisa," he murmured and his eyes met hers. For once, she didn't marvel at the colour they were, but at the emotions they held. And it was all the answers she needed. It was she that pulled her to him that second time, meeting his lips softly as though she were kissing him for the first time, kissing anyone for the first time. Her ardour grew as she could feel his do the same, and the kisses became more fervent, needier. Leading somewhere.

He wasn't kissing her with his tongue, just continuously pressing against her lips, hot and open-mouthed. She groaned low, a frustrated sound as she tried to deepen their kiss. He smiled on her mouth and reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair. He curled his finger slightly and pressed them together, giving her locks a small, teasing tug. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to make her take notice. She responded by twining her arms around his neck and pressing her hands into his back to pull him closer. He moved in, pushing her back against the headboard, pinning her body between his and the bed. He continued his slow, leisurely, wet assault of her mouth, finally slipping his tongue between her lips and taking little tastes of her. The kind of flavour that could only be Lisa. The kind that he would never forget.

Her legs dropped apart of their own volition and she hardly noticed until she felt an insistent hardness between them, creating friction, building fires. The silk pyjama bottoms she wore did nothing in the way of a barrier and she felt everything at her very core, liquid heat rushing to greet him. Her nipples were standing at attention underneath her camisole. The way he was positioned, his fully-clothed chest was just hovering above hers, not quite touching, and it was a sweet torture.

He moved away from her mouth, kissing along her jaw line and beneath her earlobe, before nipping at the appendage. She giggled and shied away.

"You're giggling?" he asked, incredulously, his voice nothing more than a raspy whisper. "I'm trying to seduce you and you're giggling?"

"That tickles," she responded innocently, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed.

He shook his head and moved back to her neck. She moaned as he found a particularly sensitive area, right where her pulse beat a steady rhythm. He paid special attention to that spot, gently biting and kissing, running his teeth along the vulnerable line. She was at his mercy. She felt like he was a vampire, just trying to decide where the juiciest spot was to bite. And it thrilled her.

His hands had moved out of her hair and were running down her neck, past her collarbone. The one hand went all the way to her hip and then around to her bottom where his fingers dug in. He yanked her down further on the bed so that her head hit the pillow instead of the headboard and he was fully over her and she was fully under him and—

"Stop!" she gasped suddenly, all the passion fled from her eyes even as she squeezed them tightly shut. She squirmed underneath him, making an uncomfortable circumstance even more painful, literally. He shifted his body weight so that it was evenly distributed over hers and he was pinning her to the bed. Not unlike the first time he'd crawled in through her window, so many weeks ago.

"Lisa, relax." Jackson's no-nonsense voice was clear of all husky seduction. "Stop."

"You stop," she demanded, still keeping her eyes closed. She bucked her hips underneath him. "I changed my mind, I don't want this. I don't want you."

Jackson rolled his eyes heavenward. "Yes, you do."

She shook her head, tears rolling out from beneath her lids, past her temples into her hair line. "I don't, I don't."

"Lisa, look at me."

"No, no."

"Lisa."

"No."

He growled and shifted so that he was grasped her face with his hand, squeezing her cheeks together. "_Look at me_."

Finally, she opened her eyes and glared at him mutinously. "I. Don't. Want. This."

He shifted again, stroking her centre with his hardness, slowly and deliberately. She shivered. "Yeah," he responded, more than a small trace of arrogance in his voice. "You do."

She just shook her head, looking away.

"No, Lisa." He forced her eyes back to his. "Look at me. Keep looking at me. Do not take your eyes off of me. Do I have your attention?"

She refused to answer, but also kept her eyes attached to his.

"Whoever you're envisioning right now, whatever circumstance you're regressing to, you need to stop. You need to get over it. It was years ago."

"But it still hurts," she whispered desperately.

"Lise." His voice had tendered when he spoke again. "Look at me. Who am I?"

She shook her head sadly. "I don't know."

"You do. You know me."

She scoffed and his expression grew stormy.

"You know me," he repeated, a bit angrier. "You know me. I'm Jack. And I'm yours."

"Just for tonight," she said, and neither knew if it was a question or a plea.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth, keeping his lips there as he spoke, so softly she could barely hear. So softly it might have been the wind. "For always."

It was the closest to a vow that he would ever get, with her or with anyone, and she knew it, and she took it for what it was and what it meant to her.

Everything.

"Okay, Jack." She gave him a tremulous smile and he gave her a rare, genuine one in return.

"Okay?"

She nodded and her smile grew. "Okay."

He kissed her again, allowing their passion to grow leisurely once more. Soon, the fires had been re-stoked. He ground against her restlessly and she spread her legs wider, wanting it. Skimming his hands over her thin top, she moaned as she felt her nipples harden to uncomfortable proportions. He went down her body, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses over her collarbone and the delicate lace lining of her camisole. Moving over the fabric, he bit at her distended nipples through the diaphanous material, pulling them even further out.

"Jack," she half-gasped, half-moaned, entwining her fingers in his hair. She bucked lightly underneath him, intentionally rubbing against his hardness. She lifted her arms over her head and he took the invitation she offered, stripping off the top so that her upper body was exposed. He paused for a beat, just because he was too male to not stop and appreciate the view for a moment. Her gently rounded breasts were still pert, too small to spread and fall to the sides. The nipples stood out like stalks, all dark and goosebumpy in the pale moonlight and glow of the television set that was still on. A fine, blonde down was slightly visible in the same light, encircling her belly button and going down into her pyjama bottoms. He wanted to follow it, but knew he had all night.

If Lisa was uncomfortable under his scrutiny she didn't show it, merely regarded him with heavily-lidded eyes and swollen lips, her expression indiscernible. He sat up and quickly stripped off his own shirt and undershirt, so that he could feel his bare flesh against hers, before falling back down on her and kissing those lips that were just begging for it. She squirmed underneath him once more, this time to revel in the feeling of his bare chest against hers. He brought his hands up between them, cupping her breasts, feeling the nipple in his palm. Her chest rose to push her breasts further into his hands, and he kissed down her chin and down her neck and down her chest. He'd raised his palms up slightly so that the nipple barely touched and was circling his hand over her breast.

Lisa's breath came in soft pants and she continued to rub restlessly against him. He was rock hard, she could feel it, and it still frightened her a little. She chastised herself for acting like such a blushing virgin and made an effort to just stop thinking altogether. Jackson chose that moment to close his mouth over her nipple and aid in that effort. She gasped loudly as his tongue played over the sensitive end and his mouth nipped and sucked. She ran her fingers through his hair and wrapped her legs around his hips. His pelvis ground into hers and she felt like she was losing her mind.

"Jackson…Jack," she gasped, as he moved to the other breast and lavished his attentions on that one as well. "Oh, God, Jack!"

He stopped and looked up at her, flashing a devilish smirk. "Yeah?"

She responded by yanking her to him and kissing him, while simultaneously squirming under him in an attempt to get her pants off. He chuckled against her mouth reached down to help her. As he pulled her bottoms down, he went down with them until his forehead rested on her navel, his chin on the line of her panties. Pulling back, he looked down at where his chin had rested and couldn't help but chuckle again.

"Shut up," she warned, laughingly. She knew he was probably less than impressed with her serviceable, white cotton underwear.

"No, it's a turn-on," he promised, climbing up to kiss her again.

"Right," she mumbled against his mouth, still smiling.

"I'll show you how much of a turn-on," he whispered back against hers, letting his hand trail down her body until it slipped beneath the cotton band. She wasn't entirely bare down there, a quality he liked in a woman as it made him feel as though he were actually sleeping with a woman and not an eight-year-old, and he slid his hand down further until all he could feel was liquid heat and teeming wetness.

"Ohh," he groaned. "You are so ready for me."

She moaned in a way that he could only deduce to be agreement.

Still, he stroked her, spreading the wetness up and down her slit, finding the centre of pleasure and rubbing it with his finger, creating a friction that had her quivering.

"Mmm," she murmured, tossing her head from side to side.

He slid his finger down further and inserted it into her, stroking her inner walls, while his thumb went back to the nerve bundle, seeking it out and chafing it.

"Jack!" She couldn't stop her cry as she gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles were white.

"Yes, baby, yes." He kissed her hotly on the mouth, his tongue stroking hers, heavily and leisurely. He slowly inserted another finger in her and her gasp turned into a loud moan that hung in the air. "Does that hurt?"

She just shook her head, whimpering. He let his fingers fill her and applied more pressure to her clitoris, flicking it with the nail of his thumb.

She panted his name in rapid succession as he murmured against her mouth, "Yes, Lise. Come for me. Come on, baby."

Her orgasm built in slow waves. She could fill it in the quivering of her inner thighs, in her muscles clenching around his sopping fingers, in the tears that pricked beneath her eyelids. She let out a long, low moan as he removed his hand from her still-throbbing centre.

"Oh, Jack," she breathed. "Oh, Jack."

He kissed her damp forehead softly. She could feel him trembling with his own unfulfilled desire and the need to be gentle with her, and she marvelled at how much he seemed to care; to protect her, in a sense. The feeling overwhelmed her, and she almost laughed out loud at how much she made out of how little he gave. She would expect nothing less from any other man, and yet for Jack to exhibit such feelings it was simply a bonus.

"Lisa," he whispered, breaking her out of her reverie.

She looked at him questioningly.

"Stop thinking so much." He kissed her fleetingly on the mouth and positioned himself above her.

She could feel the tip of his hard shaft nudging her wet, swollen flesh. A wave of unwanted memories brought bile to her throat and she tried to hold back her apprehension, but couldn't seem to help the small whimper that escaped.

Jackson said nothing, but repositioned so that he was holding himself up higher off of her, trying not to make her feel smothered. He noticed her scar then, an angry slash over her breastbone. Leaning down, he kissed along it reverently, trying to erase it with his lips and tongue. She let her head fall back and allowed herself to just feel him, feel his body over hers and his mouth on her skin. She opened her legs wider in an unspoken invitation and he looked at her and gave a soft, un-Jackson smile. Returning his gentle smile with one of her one, she reached up and kissed one of his scars—the jagged, star-shaped one at the base of his throat. He chuckled softly as she kissed him there, and she could feel the vibrations in his throat.

"Jackson." She wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him down to her, thwarting his attempts to give her some space. "I need you, I need to feel you. Please, just… stay here. Keep your body here. You feel different, and I need to know that. I need to feel that." She held his body flush against hers and they trembled together, her from her overwhelming emotions, him from his all-encompassing lust.

"Okay, Lise, okay," he murmured, kissing her face. He moved up only slightly this time, still keeping his body close to hers, and began to enter her slowly.

"Ahh," she groaned as he stretched and filled her.

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

She shook her head to the latter question, even as tears trickled from beneath her lids.

Jack clenched his jaw tightly, thinking unpleasant thoughts about the last time someone had been inside Lisa like this, and what he'd like to do to that person. He continued to push forward slowly as he kissed her tears away and then kissed her lips, transferring the salty wetness from his mouth to hers, sinking into her wetness below. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips as he filled her completely, his hard shaft sheathed within her.

They stayed like that, joined, for a moment. He wanted to give her time to adjust to him and she didn't move for fear this moment would end. It hurt, yes, a bit. But the feeling of total and unequivocal completion overrode any physical pain. It was insane, because part of her still hated him. She feared, however, that a bigger part actually loved him and that revelation snatched her breath away.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, hearing her gasp.

She turned tear-filled eyes on him and knew that her heart was doomed. She nodded jerkily and he kissed her forehead, shifting so that he slid out of her slightly, before thrusting back in.

Her intake of breath was unrelated to any inner turmoil this time, and instead was concentrated solely on the physical sensations she was feeling. He continued to slide in and out of her, the friction of the movement driving her to the brink.

She moaned loudly as he reached between their bodies and found her clit, rubbing it feverishly as he continued to thrust.

She moaned his name over and over, and he encouraged her with his own moans and panted, nonsensical words. She gripped his buttocks hard, digging her nails into the taut flesh, and brought her knees up to take him deeper in her.

Lisa felt Jack's entire body tense then, and knew that he'd reached climax. She could feel the hot spurt of his seed inside her body, could feel it approaching her womb, and for once it didn't frighten her. Of course she was protected, so there was hardly a risk of pregnancy, but even the idea of a baby didn't fill her with dread. She had no time to wonder at this, however, as Jack brought her to her own orgasm. She cried out at the force of it, throwing her head back as she let wave after wave of pleasure glide over her, course through her body.

He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. She could feel his heart thundering in her chest and knew it matched her own rapid beat. She couldn't stop touching him, running her hands up and down his back. He was still inside her, limp now, but she was reluctant to let him go. And he seemed just as reluctant to leave her. Probably out of sheer exhaustion, she reasoned, but it was still nice to keep him close right then.

Long moments passed. Their skin cooled slightly, the television set glowed, the moon still shone. Finally, he summoned the energy to remove himself from her and off of her. Goosebumps rose on her flesh as it came in contact with the cool air of her room, and she shivered lightly. Jack lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, saying nothing. Lisa got up to use the bathroom. She winced when she saw some blood on the toilet paper and, standing up, she went to wet a washcloth to clean herself up a bit. As she ran cool water over the cloth, Jack came up behind her. They were both stark naked, illuminated by the night-light in the bathroom. She had dark circles under her eyes and evidence of a morning beard was growing on Jackson's face. Both had unbelievably tousled hair and reddened parts of their bodies. For all intents and purposes, they looked like a couple that had been thoroughly ravished by one another.

Without saying anything, Jackson wrapped his arms around Lisa from behind and pulled her against him. She let the washcloth fall back into the sink and just leaned into her embrace. It was sensual, but not lustful; he was merely holding her for the sake of holding her. He'd closed his eyes and was rocking her gently back and forth. She put her arms over his and let him. After a moment, she turned around and hugged him full, arms around his neck, her hands splayed across his back. He returned it, wrapping his strong arms around her and holding her tightly.

"Jack?" she whispered against his ear.

"Mmm?"

"I just wanted you to know that I love you." He stilled, the rocking coming to an abrupt halt. "You don't have to say it back, I just wanted you to know." And it was true. She didn't need to hear it in return. It would be nice, of course, but she hadn't said it for that reason. She'd said it to get it out. To express her feelings for once instead of always bottling it up, holding it inside. She told him that she loved him so that he would know it, that he would know that no matter where he was, what he did, or where he went, there would be someone who cared.

There was a long, heavy silence. Jackson released her slowly and held her arms, his eyes travelling all over her face and her body. Without a word, he reached behind her into the sink and took the wet cloth out. He gently brought it to her face, wiping away the tear stains and dried sweat. Bringing it down, he gently bathed her with it, worshipping her arms, her chest and her back. He re-wet it and applied it tenderly between her legs, cleaning away the dried blood and semen, soothing her sore flesh. The tenderness with which he did this brought tears to her eyes, and still he said not a word. When he finished, he placed the cloth back in the sink and kissed her lightly on the temple, before heading back towards the bed.

She followed him and just watched, waiting for him to start putting his clothes back on. Waiting for him to leave. Instead, he surprised her by getting back into the bed and pulling the covers over half of his body, leaving his chest still exposed. He spread his arm out across her side of the bed and merely looked at her, his eyes slightly beckoning. She didn't hesitate for a minute and went over, climbing in beside him. She put her head on his shoulder and he put his arm around her. Putting her hand over his chest, she felt his heart beating steadily beneath her palm, and they both eventually fell asleep to the beat.


End file.
